


Τερψιχόρη

by osunism



Series: The Warmth of Your Doorway [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Ballet, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Courtship, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, F/M, Fanart, Gen, Intrigue, Mutual Pining, Original Black Female Character - Freeform, Orlesian Chevaliers, Revenge, Sexual Harassment, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-09-23 06:38:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 116,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9644735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: A veteran chevalier, the Comte Etienne de Piedmont, has invited Hadiza and her entourage to Val Royeaux for the premier ofLa miséricorde de l'Inquisition, a ballet featuring the exploits and adventures of the Inquisition. Of course, it being Orlais, there are no lures without barbs, and Hadiza finds herself embroiled in a mystery behind the curtains of the most coveted and exclusive performers' guild in Thedas.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This, like a lot of the fics, is merely a self-indulgent bit of fun, taking place over the long year and day between the events of _Post Tenebras Lux_ and _Maledictus_. I'm dedicating this fic--well, the spirit of this fic--to Persephone, who has been a die-hard Sadiza fan from the get-go, and has been such a supportive friend through all the ups and downs. A lot of this fic has bits of her influence in it, so it's only right that I shout her out in this because it's for her enjoyment (and you guys) as much as my own.  <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TERPSIKHORE (Terpsichore) was one of the nine Mousai (Muses), the goddesses of music, song and dance. In the classical era, when the Mousai were assigned specific literary and artistic spheres, Terpsikhore was named Muse of choral song and dancing, and depicted with a lyre and plectrum.
> 
> Her name means "Delighting in Dance" from the Greek words _terpsis_ "to delight" and _khoros_ "dance". [ [source](http://www.theoi.com/Ouranios/MousaTerpsikhore.html) ]

* * *

 

Emerging from the Deep Roads felt like being born. If there was one thing they could agree on is that what they had seen and experienced there could never be known. Hadiza felt strange, having to keep such secrets, but she was too weary and drained to care. Instead, she sat on the lift as it made its slow ascent toward the sky. Samson sat next to her, his armor looking a little worse for wear, his hair slick from grease and blood, his eyes distant. Neither one of them spoke, too exhausted for words.

“I told you nothing good ever comes out of the Deep Roads.” Varric said. Cassandra made a sound that was equal parts sigh and equal parts snort, but she had no retort. For once, she and Varric were in full agreement. They all were. Still, what they’d witnessed--what they’d _fought_ \--was beyond words to encompass. Hadiza stared into the vast nothingness of what she could only assume was apart of the Titan. And then she gasped as if waking from a startling dream.

“No one can know.” She told them as the sky loomed closer, the light growing brighter. “No one. The world is not ready for this.”

No one spoke.

“Quite frankly,” Varric said after the silence ebbed on for a span most would call uncomfortable, “neither are we. Some things in the Deep Roads need to stay there. Hell, maybe everything down there should just stay.” He shuddered visibly, remembering a time he’d rather forget while adding the most recent expedition to the list.

“You are right, of course,” Cassandra said, looking pensively into the abyss below, “there is no telling what chaos this would unleash if the world knew...if the world knew the truth.” Even the Seeker, as obdurate her will so often was, seemed reluctant to speak of what they’d experienced. Hadiza nodded, running her hands over her face, weary. Sleep had been hard to come by in the Deep Roads, with darkspawn whispering just beyond, lurking in the shadows, and other creatures longing to pick their teeth with the bones of the Inquisitor and her companions.

“I’m just glad to be out of that Maker forsaken place.” Samson muttered. In his days as a mercenary, he’d avoided the Deep Roads if he could, and even just passing near an entrance to the damned place was enough to break him into a cold sweat. Still, he hadn’t known what to expect down there--none of them had. Darkspawn, of a surety, but beyond that it was a mystery even to the dwarves themselves.

The climb out of the lift was arduous, and the squad moved slowly and gingerly, nursing aches, pains, and healing wounds the potions and Hadiza’s magic could not reach. Even so, they were each and every one silently thanking the Maker to be amidst the open sky again, even if it was stormy gray and pouring rain. Scout Harding escorted them to the nearby camp a few clicks to the south, and as Hadiza entered her tent, Samson following behind, she collapsed onto her knees and retched.

“Shit.” Samson hissed, going to her side. Hadiza blinked, wiping her mouth.

“Sorry,” she muttered, “sorry. I’m...I’m alright. Just…” She sighed, shaking her head. Most of what she’d vomited was water. She scanned the contents, found nothing out of the ordinary, and was content with that.

“No darkspawn rot?” Samson asked, knowing what she was about. Hadiza shook her head.

“No. But being down there...I suppose it wears on you. I cannot fathom being born there, never knowing the sky. It’s...uncomfortable.” She murmured. Samson laughed.

“Can’t imagine they don’t feel the same about us with all that ‘falling into the sky’ nonsense they go on about.” He said, watching as Hadiza loosed her vambraces and began shakily unbuckling her armor. Samson moved to help her but she waved him off.

“I’m fine.” She said, “Really. Just exhausted. As soggy as it is out here, I’m just glad to be out of that hole.”

On that, Samson could heartily agree.

Dinner that night consisted of boiled pottage, the last of the stores that remained after the expedition, and they all ate in relative silence, more tired and bone-weary than they could ever be, and retired to their bedrolls with Scout Harding and her crew taking up the rotating watch.

The following morning, they broke camp and began the ride back to Skyhold. It was a blessing as the climate shifted from storm-blown rains and rock-strewn cliffs to the open, rolling foothills of the Hinterlands. Farms, hamlets, and villages dotted the Fereldan countryside, and where Hadiza and her company rode, they were welcomed with open arms. Samson wisely kept his face hidden under his helmet, watching as Hadiza smiled cheerfully at her adoring public, waving on occasion, sitting prettily in the saddle to give the image of an undaunted leader who freed the world from destruction.

They opted to camp beneath the stars rather than spend coin in the local inns, having missed the open sky more than they originally thought. The dinnertime chat became livelier the closer they got to Skyhold, and talk went from the horror of the Deep Roads to what awaited them at home. For Hadiza, she looked forward to sleeping in her own damned bed, and did not relish the prospect of the backlog of trials she was to oversee.

“Throne getting a little too uncomfortable, princess?” Samson asked one night in their shared bedroll. He had not meant it to be cruel, but having been forced to kneel before the throne himself not so long ago, he could not help the bitterness that flavored his tongue, making his words rough.

“Yes.” Hadiza mumbled into his throat, seemingly oblivious to his thoughtless cruelty. “I’m just tired of people fucking up. You’d think Corypheus would have taught everyone to fall in line...and yet…!”

Samson wanted to laugh, but it came out halting and fearful. He had no right to judge anyone for fucking up, not when his own crime was still fresh on the minds of everyone from Denerim to the Western Approach. Instead, he pressed a kiss to the top of Hadiza’s head.

“You’ve been rather levelheaded in judgement,” he said, “I should know. You’ve just about recruited everyone brought before you.”

Hadiza smiled, he could tell, felt it spread along his skin like dawn breaking.

“It’s easier than shoving them in prison cells or killing them. A damn sight more useful too.” She said softly. “Just look how you turned out...my knight in battered armor.”

Samson grumbled. “Dragging my arse all over Thedas fighting Maker knows what in holes so deep even the darkspawn avoid them? Yeah. Useful.”

Hadiza laughed, a sound that never failed to make him smile despite himself. In response, he lifted her head, seeking a kiss. She relinquished one, then another.

“It’s true.” She said between kisses. “You’re one of the strongest warriors on my team.”

Samson said nothing, grunting in response, more concerned with the kissing.

And so it went, until they reached Skyhold. As always, her advisors were waiting for her, and as always, Samson was circumspect, taking his mount back to the stables, while Hadiza became the Inquisitor again. In the stables, Dennet was busy with one of the mounts, cleaning out the hooves of a courser. The horse stood calmly, obediently lifting its leg as Dennet worked with a calm yet pensive efficiency. He looked up from his work to see Samson already reaching for a shovel to help muck out the stables.

“You look like hammered shit.” Dennet said, “Rough trip, I take it?”

Samson grunted in response.

“Rougher.” He said. “Deep Roads.”

Dennet laughed. “Maker’s tears, lad. If I didn’t think Her Worship would take it amiss and you’d actually listen to me, I’d give you the day off. I don’t even want to know what in the Void put you all there. Just glad you’re all back in one piece.”

Samson shoveled with a quiet intensity.

“Are you, now?” He asked. “Even me?”

“Especially you.” Dennet said. “Who else is going to shovel horse shit out of the stables?”

Samson laughed despite himself, and continued his work.

* * *

“I’m sorry... _what_?” Hadiza leaned against the war table as Josephine met her gaze on the other side.

“The Comte Etienne de Piedmont, Inquisitor.” She said again, “It seems he’s rather...fond of you, and has funded the famous Visage du Soleil to put on a ballet showcasing the story of the Inquisition and its Inquisitor.”

Hadiza put her fingers through her hair, squeezing.

“Ha.” She managed to eke out. “Shit. That must have cost him a fortune.”

Josephine smiled. “Perhaps, but this is an opportunity for you to be seen amidst the peerage of Orlais as a celebrated hero and not begging favors of the Imperial Court.”

Hadiza made another sound, this one sounding slightly more excited than the last.

“Maker…!” She whispered, breathless. “Alright...he’s clearly not doing this for no reason.”

“He’s Orlesian.” Cullen said as if that were explanation enough. The assembled heads of the Inquisition knew well enough that it was.

“Well…” Josephine began and Hadiza turned away, putting her face in her hands and making the loudest, most obnoxiously exasperated sound she could muster. Josephine waited until she was done and then continued.

“The Comte has invited the Inquisitor and her entourage to his estate in Val Royeaux as his honored guests,” she said, “on the condition that the convicted war criminal General Raleigh Samson not be in attendance.”

Hadiza froze.

“ _What_?!” She cried. “I…” She sighed, thinking. “That’s fair, I suppose. It would be rude to be seen on the arm of the man who corrupted the templars and ruined most of Orlais with red lyrium.”

Josephine said nothing and Cullen’s cheeks bloomed with renewed anger, his eyes cold. Hadiza rubbed her face.

“Alright. So he wants to throw a fete in honor of this ballet by the most famous players in Orlais? What does he want from me?”

Josephine’s cheeks went a bit red with embarrassment. Hadiza stared at her.

“No.” She said. “ _No_.”

Josephine cleared her throat. “It is not a proposal, per se, merely a request to...keep your options open to powerful alliances.”

Hadiza let out another sound of exasperation.

“Well... _is_ it a powerful alliance?” She demanded. Josephine coughed.

“He’s well-connected in Court, and enjoys the favor of Empress Celene as he was one of the few chevaliers that did not side against her during the civil war, but we know how quickly that can change.”

“We’ve stabilized Orlais enough that the Court shouldn’t be divided in loyalties any longer,” Cullen added, “still, it _is_ Orlais, and you know they love their Game more than life itself.”

Hadiza shook her head. “Don’t I know it. Alright, let’s say he’s hinting at marriage to the Inquisitor. What if we refuse his invitation?”

Josephine canted her head in that way that said she was turning over every contingency and permutation of the situation in her head simultaneously. How she did that Hadiza would never know. It had taken her months to become well-versed in the politics of Thedas let alone be able to read and predict the outcomes of every action, word, and inaction--and even so she was still not nearly as skilled at it a Josephine. She waited, hoping Josephine had good news.

“It would reflect poorly on us, now that Visage du Soleil is involved. This is a risky move on the Comte’s part, as it is a considerable investment. If we decline his invitation, his reputation will be tarnished as he will be forced to honor his investment with Visage du Soleil, but without the Inquisition in attendance, it will appear as if he is merely vying for attention and not honoring our actions through performance art.  As it stands, if we _do_ accept, we get control of how we are portrayed, and enjoy the prestige that comes with the Visage du Soleil’s patronage.”

“Nonsense,” Cullen said, “what’s a ballet going to do to _us_? And what difference does it make if we are present or not? Is his goal not the same? To curry continued favor with the Inquisition in hopes we may do something for him in turn?”

“You’d be surprised.” Josephine said dryly. “Visage du Soleil is renown for its daring style and beautiful performers. They perform for the Empress frequently, and there’s no shortage of former Soleil performers who have moved on to enjoy private patronage in the Imperial Court. A prima ballerina’s influence can be just as damning or favorable as a duke’s.”

Hadiza rubbed her temples. “So you’re saying if we accept, I have to play along with the Comte’s game of courtship until the ballet premiers? And if we refuse, he’ll besmirch our names and we lose our lifetime access to all the operas, plays, and ballets of Orlais?”

“Yes.”

Hadiza laughed. “Well, then. Teach me how to pretend to be interested in the Comte, Josephine. Tell me everything you know about him.”

“Inquisitor!” Cullen said sharply. “Certainly you aren’t considering this? Using yourself as a bargaining chip for favor from a mere...from…?”

Hadiza shot him a dark look, silencing him.

“I’m not using myself as a bargaining chip. I’m accepting an invitation and possibly entertaining haggling the Comte down to becoming a favored ally of the Inquisition. Believe me, Commander, marriage has never been on the table.”

The last words struck Cullen like a blow. He knew in his heart Hadiza didn’t mean them for the Comte, and it cut at the healing wound on his heart afresh. He drew himself up, cold and resolute. If she would not let the wound be, nor would he give her the satisfaction of his heartbreak.

“Very well, Inquisitor.” He said neutrally. “What will you?”

Hadiza traced the map on the table, taking one of Josephine’s iron pieces and placing it on Val Royeaux’s spot on the map. A great many of her pieces had been crowded there.

“Get Remy La Fienne, Ambassador. Seems we’re going to be playing the Game again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm opting for a sort of timed release, so the updates will be slow until the fic is complete. I want to release one chapter a week but we know I can't stick to a schedule if I'm not getting paid or making a grade, so please comment if you're into this.


	2. Chapter 2

Circumspect.

Samson hated that word more than anything. Out in the wild, far-flung and forgotten places of Thedas, he could see her, and if desire willed it so: he could touch her. He could look upon her openly, with all the sick adoration of a sinner before the compassionate divine, could watch the lines smooth from her face as she bequeathed him with one of her quick and easy smiles.  He could do all of this because the eyes of the world were turned elsewhere, and no one was looking for scandal in the thick, wet cold of the Frostback Basin, nor the sun-blasted sands of the Western Approach, or the terrible, breathing darkness of the Deep Roads and the forsaken abyss beyond. As exhausted as they were on the road in the days he did his penance helping to repair and rebuild what he destroyed, at least he could be near her, and in those rare moments of companionable silence, take her hand in his and lace their fingers. Those were the moments he locked away to guiltlessly savor much later.

In Skyhold, eyes followed him, and sometimes spit and stones followed as well. Children gaped, singing cruel songs and jests, while parents made signs to ward off evil, taking their errant children by the ear and scolding them for engaging in such petty cruelties, as if he were some wild and caged beast expected to strike out of fear and without provocation. Samson did his work in relative isolation, even when he was part of a group. Cullen ignored his existence entirely, and when he didn’t, he was met only with a contemptuous stare. As far as the Commander was concerned, he had served his purpose and was no longer his problem. Samson found no succor anywhere, and at least the Lady Ambassador did not stare at him as if he were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Even the companions--the ones who hadn’t abandoned the Inquisition--kept their distance within Skyhold...save for Blackwall, now Thom Rainier.

In that, at least, the two men found common ground. Both had been bound for the gallows for seemingly unforgivable crimes, and both had come before Hadiza’s throne and been granted a chance to atone. It yoked them to the Inquisition indefinitely for the remainder of their lives, but in that, Samson watched Rainier become comfortable in being the man he’d told her he was. And Samson...well...he was reminded what it felt like to protect rather than destroy.

He found him in the barn, on his carving bench, working.

“Shouldn’t you be hauling stone somewhere for the good of Thedas?” Rainier asked good-naturedly. Samson grinned, glancing at the completed works on the bench; a child’s rocker in the shape of a griffon, what looked to be a knight, a wooden sword, and a spoon.

“Thedas will continue to prosper whether or not I’m toiling away in the arse-end of the Frostbacks,” he replied gruffly, “just trying to make myself busy.”

Rainier shot him a knowing look briefly, but kept carving. Samson saw the makings of what he assumed would be a stool.

“It’s the waiting that’s hard.” Rainier said without looking up from his work, hands working meticulously at scratching out a tiny detail along the stool’s leg. When he looked up, his eyes were hard, bearing both a warning and wisdom. “I don’t know what agreement you two reached but my advice would be to honor it to the letter. She’s got more to lose than you  if you don’t. In any case, since you’re here, give me a hand and chop some more wood for me, would you?”

Samson wanted to decline, but he had no counter for it, and grumbled an assent.

Chopping wood was a lot harder than most thought, and it took a strong and even hand to be proficient at the task. As Samson began, it didn’t take long for him to heat up. He unlaced his shirt, tugging it over his head to toss it aside while he worked. Sweat shone on his skin in a light sheen, and he felt a burn in his shoulders as aches and pains sustained in the Deep Roads were rekindled with each swing of the axe. Still, he was accurate, and bit by bit a small pile of wood began to build up, neatly chopped. Samson’s chest burned from the effort, the sharp, algid air of Skyhold biting into his lungs.

He took a break to wipe the sweat from his brow with his discarded shirt when a runner came to him.

“Her Worship wishes to see you.” Was all the runner said, as if saying the words were akin to eating crow. Samson nodded absently and decided instead to complete his task, stacking the wood neatly. He threw on his soiled shirt and tried to make himself as presentable as he could before heading into the keep.

Inside, Skyhold teemed with the steady hum of any castle. Nobility who loitered in the throne room, seeking an audience with the Inquisitor barely seemed to notice his passing, and yet, the whispers trailed after him like smoke. He caught the words ‘illicit’ and ‘paramour’, and hid his amusement. In truth, he did not much care about the vicious rumors, but he cared on Hadiza’s behalf all the same. In his eyes, she deserved none of the vitriol, although there were still days he wondered if she’d hit her head...otherwise why would she have come to care for him so  much? It was a puzzle Samson could not solve, and thus, he remained frustrated at the forced silence of his tongue. He could not dispel the gossip with the truth, but it chafed at his pride--which was already raw--to listen to what was said of _her_.

He found her in the Undercroft. He had hoped to be invited to her chambers, but that damnable word nettled at his guilt: _circumspect_. She was standing by her storage chest beneath the vaulted ceiling, her fingertips resting lighting on the curve of rude wood, staring out at the sun-struck waterfall beyond, the blurring image of the Frostbacks beyond that. Her back was to him, and her hair was loosed at last from that damnable braid, bound only by the crown on her head. It was a tradition of Ostian nobility to wear such trappings; tiaras, crowns, diadems, rich silks and darkened velveteen. Ostwick was one of the more opulent city-states in the Marches, and Hadiza wore that well. When she turned to him, Samson felt his heart leap. He accepted--and hoped--it would always be so as long as he had left to live.

“You wanted to see me?” He asked. Hadiza gave a small smile.

“I did,” she replied, “I’ve news...not all of it good.” She traced the edge of the wide sleeve of her velveteen dress, stiff with embroidery, a habit he knew indicated her nervousness.

“When have you ever gotten good news from your advisors, Your Worship?” Samson asked her, giving her his most nonchalant smile. Hadiza sighed.

“A fair point, but this concerns you.” She said meeting his gaze. Samson’s smiled waned. Hadiza pursed her lips.

“The Comte de Piedmont has...taken a liking to me and by default, the Inquisition itself. He’s a very wealthy and powerful man, not easily deterred by my usual evasive techniques. He’s invited us to the premier of the Visage du Soleil’s staging of _La miséricorde de l'Inquisition_ , a new ballet featuring...our story.”

Samson rolled his eyes. Typical. Orlesian bards had already turned Hadiza’s story into a pantomime it seemed. He crossed his arms, waiting for her to continue.

“Of course, this being Orlais, there are terms and conditions of this opportunity and invitation.” Hadiza said. “Being that it has not been a full year and day yet until I put you to community service to the Inquisition...the Comte has requested that I not bring you as part of my entourage on this excursion.”

Samson had a feeling this would be one of the terms, but he was no fool. There was likely a great deal more than simply salvaging the reputations of some Orlesian pissant and the Inquisition.

“And let me guess, there’s more.” He said, trying not to sound embittered at the prospect. Hadiza’s eyes slid away from his. “Princess.”

The endearment drew her gaze to his slowly. “The Comte has requested permission to court me.” She said, the words coming out in a rush. Samson’s brow knit.

“Court you? As in...marriage?”

Hadiza turned a gold ring around her finger nervously. Samson sighed.

“And if you say no, it makes you look bad.” Samson guessed and she nodded. “So what? Let the Comte try his luck. Enjoy your ballet.”

Samson turned to leave but Hadiza stopped him.

“Please don’t be angry with me,” she said, “you understand the situation I’m in. And you should...we knew that something like this would happen.”

Samson faced her again.

“Yes.” He said. “We did. Just didn’t think it’d happen so soon...I was just starting to like you.” At that, Hadiza smiled.

Samson sighed. “We’ve been in the Deep Roads for weeks. I was hoping for…” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure the ballet would be nice. Maybe Rutherford can escort you.”

Hadiza’s eyelids flickered, but the stormy ice turned to steel as she released his arm.

“Perhaps.” She said coolly. “I’ll let you get back to work, then. I thought I should warn you before we got underway rather than you hear it spat at you in vicious gossip.”

Samson felt his anger snuff out like a flame guttering in a stiff breeze.

“I know.” He said, reluctant. “You’re playing politics--or the _Game_ , rather. I understand, and it was a bit presumptuous to assume you’d go back on your word for my sake.”

Hadiza smiled, tinted with sorrow and sympathy.

“I’m sorry. We knew this would be hard. Hopefully this will be quick and painless.” She stepped closer, leaned up to kiss his chin. As always, he turned his head, brushing his lips against hers. For a moment, they lingered, and he shut his eyes, smiling. Hadiza smiled too, and for a while the roar of the waterfall became a distant murmur, and the chill of the Undercroft was beaten back by the warmth they shared between them.

They tore away from one another, shattering the moment when the door opened and Harritt strolled in, shouldering a heavy leather bag filled with steel ingot. Hadiza searched for somewhere else to look and Samson made ready to leave. Harritt didn’t seem to notice either of them.

“Your Worship.” He greeted casually, and went about his business. Hadiza, cheeks burning, quickly murmured a greeting and then made for the door. At the same time, Samson did as well and they ran into each other.

“Oh!” She cried. “Sorry! I’m...I’ll…”

“Go.” Samson finished, smiling, a flush creeping to the back of his neck as her hand found his in passing, briefly lacing their fingers. “Go on. You know where to find me when you need me.” He watched as Hadiza entered the main hall and crossed the throne room to enter her private chambers. After a while, Samson felt the chill of the Undercroft more keenly.

“If you’ve got time to pine, you’ve time to work,” Harritt said, “get over here and help me with this.”

Samson turned, almost agitated, but remembering his place, went to Harritt in insolent silence. He helped stack the ingot on their respective shelves, then fired up the bellows as Harritt began the process of creating a new piece. Samson helped with inventory, and logged upcoming repairs in the book. The silence of the Undercroft was underscored by the clash of metal, and the gusting breath of the bellows. Dagna was out in the field, collecting data for whatever nugbrained magical invention she had cooking up in her head. Samson smiled, remembering a time when he would watch Maddox work, almost immediately packing away the memory. He kept it close, though, kept it within reach. It was easier to bear, knowing Hadiza had buried him and accorded him the respect he deserved.

The work went by quickly the farther his thoughts wandered, and before he knew it, the sunset was beaming through the waterfalls of the Undercroft, making the droplets of water sparkle like tiny stars. Dusk fell and Samson straightened up, cracking his tired back. He helped Harritt clean up the smithing area, sweeping away ash, dust, and discarded scraps of metal. When the work was finished, he was released back into the main hall for the evening meal.

Unlike the companions and nobility, who dined in the hall with the Inquisitor, Samson took his meals below in the library. He managed to swipe a few choice tidbits on his way down, hoarding his bowl and eating as he walked. He had come, in his long years making terrible choices, to enjoy solitude and quiet. He cared precious little for the revelry above, and as he entered the library, he was surprised to find Hadiza there, nose-deep in a book as usual.

“Princess.” He greeted, and felt his heart leap as she looked up, eyes as clear and bright as a sunrise. Her pensive expression melted away, lines smoothed from her face as she smiled at him. Samson would have given anything to fix that expression in his memory. He tried, vowing that if the lyrium took everything from him, it would leave him this.

“Hello, you.” She greeted as he crossed the room to kiss her. She smiled into each kiss as Samson set his food aside on the table, wanting and needing to grasp her waist with both her hands. Hadiza’s arms came around him, hands cupping his face as the kiss deepened.

“Maker…!” Samson whispered, “Breathe, girl.”

Hadiza laughed, and she sounded so amused he kissed her again.

“I leave in a week’s time.” She whispered. “The journey will be slower traveling with an entourage. I’m hoping this will be a routine mission of politics, a night at the ballet, lots of food we’re not supposed to eat or we’ll ruin the aesthetic, and then I’ll be back here inside a fortnight.”

Samson laughed. “When have any of your plans had you back within a fortnight, princess?” He kissed along the line of her jaw, nipping at the tender flesh as she laughed in turn.

“You’d be lucky if some dragon didn’t swoop in and start burning the Summer Bazaar the night of your ballet.” He continued. Hadiza laughed harder and Samson kept his lips on her throat, smiling around the source of the sound.

“Oh you’d love that wouldn’t you?” She asked. “Samson, your food is getting cold.”

“Mm?” Samson opened his mouth, slid his tongue along her pulse, smiling inwardly at the sound she made in response.

Later, after he’d slaked his hunger, he returned to his room. As a courtesy, Hadiza let Cullen have a guard posted at his door, but she had allowed him the comfort of a proper bed, a desk, a wash area, and even books to read. Samson knew the guards were Cullen’s hand-picked minions, and knew by that alone they’d never trust him, but he cared little for their trust. The Inquisitor trusted him, and that mattered a great deal more.

He slept.

* * *

Hadiza knew enough about Orlesian nobility, the criminal underworld, and arcane matters to fill several books. In fact, that very knowledge _had_ filled several books, many of which she stared at pensively on the bookshelves in her chambers. Several sat on her desk, and at Josephine’s insistence, Hadiza began to learn all about the Piedmont family, and what made them who they were in the pecking order of the Imperial Court. The night deepened, the candle melted, and she finally switched to magefire as she rubbed her face tiredly. Thus far, she learned nothing she did not already know, augmented with gossip. She wondered, not for the first time, why the Comte had been so brazen in his request to be allowed to court her.

“Well,” she said aloud into her vast and empty bedchamber, “it’s clearly to be seen with me. Ugh.”

She lay her head on the desk with an exasperated sound. She lay there for a long while, and before she knew it, the warm light faded and she shut her eyes. Sleep came, and Hadiza lay in stillness, the magefire floating idly around her head.

A gentle hand shook her, and Hadiza started awake with a snort and a cry, wiping her mouth and gripping her chair. Daylight was beginning to pour into her room, and she rubbed her face again when she saw Ariadne standing in her bedchamber, looking as if time itself seemed loathe to do anything to her. Hadiza blinked, confused.

“You’re not here to kill me are you?” She asked, her voice cracked and raw with sleep. Ariadne canted her head, smiling.

“I could have killed you hours ago. You’re a heavy sleeper in Skyhold.” Ariadne replied. When she shifted, Hadiza tensed, but only slightly. Still, much like any predator that knew it had the upperhand, Ariadne smiled. It was chilling, and it made Hadiza momentarily forget they came from the same womb.

“I’m here to brief you on a development in the Emerald Graves before the other two advisors bore you with other developments.” Ariadne said conversationally. “The Freeman linger, and Fairbanks has had his hands full beating them back. I’ve sent my agents to scout ahead and it seems they’re holed up in the Sighs.”

Hadiza leaned her head back.

“And let me guess: you want me to bring down the hand of the Maker on them myself?”

Ariadne let out a sound that resembled laughter.

“No. I was just letting you know. If we need you there, we shall keep you posted. Josephine’s adamant about keeping your schedule clear while you’re...carousing with the Comte, however. So it’s likely she doesn’t want Cullen or myself pulling you from the Game.”

Hadiza did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. She did not want to play the Game, but neither did she want to spend weeks in the Graves frying deserters of a war that was long since ended. Where she truly wanted to be, she couldn’t go, not yet, not with the eyes of ages entrenched in her shadow waiting for her to do something unspeakable in the name of love. She sighed loudly again.

“Thank you, Ari.” She said tiredly, “Anything else?”

“You should consider putting a sound dampening spell on your little library below.” Ariadne said. Hadiza sat up abruptly, suddenly alert and panicked, but Ariadne shimmered out of sight, leaving only the soft echo of her strange laughter. Hadiza swore under her breath, and went to her wardrobe to look for something to wear for the day. In the end, she settled on the midnight blue silk brocade blouse with gold frog clasps and soft, taupe leggings. It was casual compared to her usual wardrobe, but she cared little for it. She was still so damned _tired_.

The meeting with her advisors was blessedly short, and Hadiza attributed it largely to Josephine’s influence. The Ambassador had always been adept at perceiving Hadiza’s threshold of tolerance for tedious meetings and navigating the discussion accordingly. With the impending debut of the Comte’s ballet, Hadiza’s only desire was to crawl back up the stairs and into bed. Still, a party was a party, and Hadiza enjoyed Orlesian parties for the drama alone.

“Tell him yes.” She heard herself saying, much to her and Cullen’s surprise. “The Inquisition accepts his invitation and will make its way to Val Royeaux. He also has permission to court me.”

“I wish him luck on that endeavor.” Cullen muttered and Hadiza shot him a dark look across the war table, but he was not watching her, instead inspecting the map idly. She took a deep breath and exhaled sharply.

“Is that all?” Hadiza wondered idly. “It seems with Corypheus defeated, the trade routes are freer than they’ve ever been, and our soldiers have seen to it that they remain thus. Is everyone satisfied?”

Josephine flipped through the pages on her scribe board, examining.

“Ah, yes,” she said, “it seems ever since your debut at Halamshiral in the La Fienne gown, there’s been a surge of demand for royale sea silk. As we’ve exclusive contracts with the traders in Ayesleigh, it seems we are now low in stock. Royale sea silk is rare, as you know.”

Hadiza raised her brows in surprise. “I see. Well, mayhap we should oblige their demand. Restrict trade to only our most steadfast allies. Give Orlesians too much of what they want and they no longer want it. A little exclusivity will keep the Inquisition’s coffers full, and we can drive up the price until Remy drapes me in some other coveted fabric.”

Josephine smiled, a little proud of Hadiza’s thinking. Cullen rolled his eyes. Hadiza did not miss that, and she wondered if there would ever be a time he would forgive her for her transgression. Even so, she remained resolute within the safety of her title and status, content to be as cool and distant as the stars when he looked upon her. He could not help it, their eyes met, and Hadiza hoped he saw only the hinterland of what little affection she once bore him. Whatever he saw, it made him avert his gaze quickly, his cheeks blooming with anger and embarrassment.

“Very well, Inquisitor. I’ll send a missive with our next courier immediately.” Josephine said, and filled the silence with scribbling from her quill, and Hadiza nodded.

“Alright. Are we done here?” She glanced at each of her advisors. “Very well. This meeting is adjourned. Lady Josephine, we’ll meet again later to discuss the logistics of this...expedition.”

Josephine smiled sweetly. “Of course, Your Worship. Shall I have the honeyed pastries brought when we do?”

Hadiza smiled, fond and indulgent. “Please do. Send a note to the cook to include honeycomb if we’ve any to spare.”

She turned on her heel and left them, eager to be elsewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment below, leave kudos, etc. In any case, I think I've established updating on Sundays.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised smut but...

The days passed in a flurry of activity. Hadiza was fitted for every manner of gown and formal wear in preparations for her impending meeting with the Comte, and while she adored the gowns of damask silk and silk brocade, she hated the fitting process. A veritable flock of seamstresses swarmed her in her chambers, on order of La Fienne himself, one of Orlais’ most prestigious designers. La Fienne was known to garb no less than Empress Celene herself and for the Inquisitor to be compared to the veritable jewel in Orlais’ ostentatious crown was something to note indeed.

Thus, under Vivienne’s adroit guidance, she endured. She was draped in half a dozen different fabrics, and a table held a colorful assortment of mask molds for her pleasure. Of course, she was to have no real say in what she wore--that honor fell to La Fienne himself--and so Hadiza sighed with relief when the designer clapped his hands once, sending his flock scrambling to attention.

Remy La Fienne was a man whose story was remarkable. He had come from admittedly humble origins, but his family’s designs were so prestigious that almost three hundred years of garbing Orlesian nobility had seen those meager roots overlooked in favor of the lush and rare fruit that sprouted from them. Remy was a short and slender man, who wore only black and white.

While his clothing was simple, the fabrics he selected were anything but. What Hadiza had taken for simple cotton was actually a finely spun cambric, and what she had mistaken for simple brocade on his velveteen doublet was real golden thread. His mask was a simple black domino, inlaid with obsidian, giving it a dark glimmer when he turned his head this way or that. He observed Hadiza with a fastidious expression that reminded her too much of her father.

“No.” He said curtly. Hadiza’s brows went up.

“I’m sorry?” She asked, trying not to move for fear of ruining whatever vision he saw draped underneath the conflicting textures and patterns that weighed her down. Remy did not respond as he picked at a bolt of ring velvet, his lip set into a grim line.

“The birds of the Court will all be weighed down in silk this season,” he said absently, “and so where others strive to sparkle, you, Inquisitor, must demure.”

Hadiza blinked. “Demure?” She echoed incredulously. Remy shot her a look and Hadiza shrank beneath her mountain of fabrics like a chastised child.

“Yes, Inquisitor. The Orlesian court has picked up on the trend of starlight oil. There will be no shortage of glitter on the floors of the Winter Palace. I pity the servants who must clean up after. You have become known for daring to show a bit of skin as well, and so doubtless the bodices will be scandalously low and cleavage will be superfluous. So we will...go in the opposite direction.”

Hadiza smiled. She had little of Vivienne’s wit to come up with a daring riposte to counter his decision, but if there was anything those of Orlais agreed on it was that one did not _counter_ Remy La Fienne. If he wanted her to demure amidst the glittering flowers of Orlesian nobility, then Hadiza would take the robes of a lay sister if that was his wish. She just secretly hoped that that was not what he had in mind.

“Fustian velvet here,” he said as he walked around her, occasionally brushing his fingertips over her body, “highever weave paneling, perhaps brocade on the torso. A high collar...gold clasps...Medea!”

A young elf, whose skin was nearly as dark as Hadiza’s, with a charming dusting of freckles across her face and an even more charming profusion of tight curls to frame it, stepped forward. Her eyes were dark and bright with her youth, and she held several bolts of various fabrics, including the fustian velvet and highever weave.

“Bring me the sketchbook.” Remy said. “Elwyn, take stock of our available dyes. I’ve always hated that garish shade of highever weave...let’s find something suitable for the Inquisitor.”

Hadiza blinked, watching him work. He sketched in soft and bold lines, and Hadiza smiled in amazement as a willowy representation of her svelte frame came to life on the page, arrayed in what could only be a gown of velvet. Remy glanced up at her once, his eyes narrowed.

“Hm…” He canted his head, “Very nice. At least you’re not like most of my other clients. You’ve kept your measurements the same?”

Hadiza lifted her chin, somewhat offended.

“I assure you, messire, my measurements are unchanged.” She said defiantly. Remy raised a brow, and motioned to Elwyn who came with the strip of measuring cord. Hadiza stood in only her smallclothes, feeling judged and exposed as the cold strip wrapped around her breasts, then her ribcage, then her waist, and then her hips. Elwyn marked the measurements in a book, and then nodded curtly to Remy.

“Very well done,” Remy said, “I was afraid in your victory you would grow slovenly and robust from all the feasting that goes on here. But you seem to have had a care with your waistline...although you’re much thinner than I remember. Perhaps you can do to eat a macaron or two in the future. You may dress.”

Hadiza blinked, her mouth twisting to find the thin line between being gracious and being affronted. “Is that all?”

Remy raised his brow again. “You know how I work, Inquisitor. I will not be rushed, not even by the Herald of Andraste. You are free to go. I will array your entourage as best as I am able, but you understand that with the Comte de Piedmont’s impending fete that I’ve all manner of Orlesian rabble clamoring at my atelier in an effort to outshine one another.”

Hadiza smiled smugly. Only a designer like Remy could refer to the flower of Orlesian nobility as rabble without so much as batting a lash. She nodded as she dressed, snatching a scrap of leather thong to tie up her hair.

“I understand, messire.” She said indulgently, “And I trust you’ll deliver in time for the fete. Madame de Fer speaks highly of you still.”

“She would.” Remy said arrogantly. “There is no one to match her impeccable sense of style. She has attained the impossible balance of Orlesian opulence and magical austere. You would do well to learn from her example, Inquisitor.” He looked Hadiza up and down. “Mayhap make a few changes to your wardrobe, as well.”

Hadiza laughed. It was one thing that the people of the Inquisition knew Hadiza to be lavish and opulent in her manner of dress, garbing herself in only the finest cloth. But when the most elite designer in Orlais tells you you need to update your wardrobe, it is a rude awakening. Thus, Hadiza took the scolding and made a mental note to ask Vivienne for advice. She had ever admired the woman’s statement looks, from the horned hennin to the open bodice, to the high stiff collar of silverite and royale sea silk. Hadiza could not blame Remy for looking askance at her own wardrobe after having fitted and attired Madame de Fer.

Still, it nettled at her own pride just a little.

Thus, her fittings concluded, Hadiza sat wearily at her desk when the couturiers left, and stared at the mountain of paperwork on her desk. Josephine was the most organized individual in Thedas, and had been kind enough to loan Hadiza her assistant to organize her own office space. Still, Hadiza stared, and felt herself drift.

_Blood. So much blood. Was that from my head?_

The memory was so vivid Hadiza reached up idly and touched the healed scar on her scalp, hidden by her hair. Samson had struck a mighty blow, and had Hadiza’s shields not held, he might have split her skull. Still, he’d landed a glancing blow that as enough to open a gash and send warm blood flowing like magma down her face and neck. Hadiza could still feel the strangeness of it, the stickiness of her own blood drying on her face like some macabre war paint. She could taste it, coppery and salty on her tongue.

And Samson had loomed so tall, a great beast against the serenity of the mid-afternoon sky, clouds scuttling across the brilliant blue background. She remembered her own fear filling her throat like smoke as she thought with absolute certainty that Samson’s next blow would kill her.

She remembered the guilt in his expression every time he ran his fingers through her hair and felt it under his fingertips, like a braille marker reminding him of what he’d almost done, of the opportunity he’d almost destroyed for the sake of vengeance.

Hadiza understood in that moment that every touch between herself and Samson was an act of contrition and of forgiveness, and she was not entirely sure where that left them.

_It is in the Maker’s hands, whatever is between us._ Hadiza thought, and clung to that cold comfort for whatever it was worth.

“--diza?” The voice pulled Hadiza back into herself, throwing off the weight of knowledge and memory. She looked up as Josephine’s face came into focus, beautiful in her concern, her well-plucked brows knitted in consternation as Hadiza blinked up at her. She realized belatedly that the texts she had been studying were untouched. How long had she been gone, lost in an ocean of recent memory?

“Josephine,” Hadiza said tiredly, “I’m sorry. Have you been waiting long?”

“No.” Josephine said, “Did you even sleep in your bed at all?”

Hadiza covered a yawn lazily with her hand. “No, but I had planned to make it there eventually. Got caught out reading again, I suppose. And Remy and his army were here measuring me and draping me in every bolt of fabric in Thedas.”

Josephine laughed. “You should feel flattered, Remy does not travel for anyone save Madame Vivienne and the Empress. For you to be being looked over by the man himself is an opportunity most of the Imperial Court would kill for...and they have.”

Hadiza stood up, stretching. “Really? Did it work?”

Josephine canted her head. “No. Although there was one Madame Dumier who came close to getting his attention. She wanted to wear live songbirds in her hair. That was the season heavy wigs and the like were all the rage. Other designers clamored for Madame Dumier’s attention, but she wanted no less than Remy himself. Remy turned the idea down, finding it too garish for his tastes.”

Hadiza looked over a stack of reports on her desk. “And someone else took it up, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Josephine said through a half-laugh, half-smile, “although I daresay Madame Dumier regretted the idea soon after. It was to attend the annual women’s luncheon at Countess de Laciel’s country estate outside of Val Chevin. So of course, Madame Dumier arrives, songbirds in her hair, tweeting away. It was pleasant at first, but afterward the constant chirping became aggravating and of course, these being live animals they eventually had to...you know…”

“No.” Hadiza said, incredulous but amused. “They _didn’t!”_

Josephine nodded. “They did. Right all over her powdered wig. It was a _mess_ , and Countess de Laciel snapped her lace fan closed and said simply, ‘Madame Dumier, ‘twould seem your prized pets make for poor accessories. Mayhap you should have had your cook make better use of them. It’s a great deal less messy, I’d say!’”

Josephine laughed, remembering. “Everyone laughed as Madame Dumier fled the party. She was so embarrassed that she claimed a delicate condition and went to Antiva for an entire season. When she returned, no one was talking about it, but every so often in the salon at the palace, the flautist in the chamber ensemble would make his flute tweet whenever she entered the room.”

Hadiza laughed uproariously. It was so petty, so unnecessarily ridiculous, but it was also so quintessentially Orlesian she could not help it. And so she laughed until she cried, thinking of some poor, masked old woman fleeing a party with a wig filled with twittering songbirds and bird excrement.

“And so I shall remember what an honor that Remy La Fienne sees fit to garb me himself, then, lest I end up with bird shit in my hair.” Hadiza said, dashing away tears of mirth with a silk kerchief, embroidered with the Inquisitor’s own insignia in the corner. She shook her head.

“Alright,” she said, “now...to work. What other preparations need to be made for our affair with the Comte de Piedmont?”

Josephine smiled indulgently, and the meeting began. Hadiza had tea and honeycake brought up, and the meeting continued late into the afternoon, until the sunlight burnished the room in vermilion and gold, and the bells of the Chantry in the garden tolled the evening prayer. Hadiza and Josephine concluded their meeting, the honeycakes gone, the remaining tea cold, the cubes of precious sugar barely touched. The plans were laid, and Hadiza was for once in her life, free to do what she wished with her time.

Unable to think of aught else to do, she went to the Chantry. Mother Giselle was leading the faithful in prayer, and though there were both common and nobility arrayed in the fragrant, ever blooming garden, Hadiza felt a certain sense of pride that all were humbled before the Maker and His Bride. She did not push forward through the throng, as one might have expected, but hang back, listening to Mother Giselle’s soothing voice as she spoke her sermon.

Hadiza listened, but the words were a blur in her ears. It did not matter, being amidst people who truly believed gave her some comfort. It reminded her of home, and strangely, with a brief pang of guilt, of her mother.

The sermon ended, and a sense of tranquility settled over the garden as they dispersed, some in contemplative silence, others speaking in hushed whispers of the evening’s message. Mother Giselle watched, beaming with that motherly pride all Chantry clergy carried. Hadiza approached her, and Mother Giselle welcomed her with open arms.

“Your Worship,” she said, “you are looking well. I trust you are so.”

Hadiza smiled. “Mother Giselle I’ve told you you can call me by my name if you please. And yes, I am well enough. Preparing for a journey to Val Royeaux.”

Mother Giselle gave her wry smile, but her eyes were warm and indulgent.

“You have told me I may call you by name, but how can I with the things you’ve accomplished in your young life? Allow me to pay you the respect and reverence you are due, Inquisitor.”

Hadiza sighed, feigning exasperation, as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. “If you insist.” She fiddled with the heavy signet ring on her finger, turning it round and round; horse head, gold band, horse head, gold band, horse--

Mother Giselle hesitated a moment, and then said,  “I wanted to speak with you about something. In private, if you please?”

Hadiza felt her hackles instinctively rise. “Of course.”

The two women made their way through the garden, entering the keep through one of the many side doors. They passed through to a small, rarely used hallway. There, Hadiza braced herself for something she could only attribute to nosey parents seeking to meddle in their children’s personal affairs.

“I have noticed that you and...General Samson, are close.” Mother Giselle began and Hadiza swallowed hard. There it was, then; right to the heart of the matter. “It is my understanding that he still bears no love for the Chantry, but he is ill-inclined to speak on it when I hold service for the prisoners who still serve the faith.”

Hadiza sighed. Skyhold’s cells were for the most part empty. What prisoners she took she yoked to the Inquisition, and those who challenged her in battle and met their end, she buried and forgot. She felt confident in her decision: Alexius had risen to a rank of grudging respect in the Inquisition mage tower, pioneering research that many of the southern mages had never seen. Ser Ruth was becoming a champion of peace and all that was good, spearheading the hunt for darkspawn prowling the vulnerable countryside. And Samson…

“The Chantry has not exactly given him many reasons to love it, Mother Giselle,” Hadiza said, “even I can see his point in that.”

“That may be true,” Mother Giselle said softly, “but if he feels this way, why does he sit in on my sermons at all?”

Hadiza shrugged. “Mother Giselle, this sounds like something you should speak to him about yourself. I can no more know his reasoning than you can despite our friendship. If he is inclined to share his thoughts on the matter, then he will do so, but anything he divulges to me is in confidence and I’d not breach that just so you can feel comfortable speaking with him.”

Mother Giselle nodded. “Understood, Inquisitor. I did not mean to intrude. I have tried speaking with him, but he has been...reticent. I thought perhaps maybe he did not know how to speak for fear of offense. I was hoping you could offer insight on how to approach him in the future.”

Hadiza crossed her arms. “Well, for starters, stop treating him like a dog on the verge of biting. He’s only a man, as mortal as you or I. A man who has been hard-used by life and made some terrible choices. This is his chance to atone, and sometimes atonement is a path that must be walked alone. Treat him as you would anyone in need of guidance back to the light. He is reticent because there may not be anything worth saying or he may not be ready to say it. Either way: you must speak with him yourself to find out. I’ll not act as go-between.”

Mother Giselle inclined her head.

“You are right, of course,” she said, “and perhaps I was biased in my treatment of him. It is difficult for most to accept that it could have been any of us in his shoes, and that alone should allow us empathy to help him atone. But so too is it difficult to accept that not all will be welcoming to this chance. But I believe you are one of the few who understand the difficulty of the former.”

Hadiza shifted uneasily on her feet. The words bottled up in her chest, up her throat, constricted her tongue, and floated behind her clenched teeth. She wanted to blurt them out, but she’d not say it unless it was _to him_.

“Yes.” Was all she said, unwilling to give up much more than that. She wanted no part of whatever tension was pulled between the older woman and Samson, nor did she wish to seem biased in the favor of one or the other. In her mind, Samson’s faith or lack thereof was not her business, and nor was it her duty to sway him. The Andrastian faith was embraced in sincerity and of one’s own volition, or not at all.

At least here in Skyhold, that was her solemn rule regarding the practice of religion.

Mother Giselle held her gaze a moment longer, and then resigned herself with a sigh.

“Very well, Inquisitor,” she said, sounding somewhat disappointed, “I shall speak with him about this matter. I hope your influence, however, proves to be a positive one where he’s concerned.”

Hadiza narrowed her eyes slightly as she watched Mother Giselle leave the way they’d come, retreating back to the safety of the Chantry gardens, amidst those who saw and believed as she did. She took a deep breath, and continued on her way into the keep, eager for dinner.

* * *

When Hadiza summoned him later that evening, Samson was relieved to go to her. He slipped through her chamber door like a ghost when the main hall was all but empty, the braziers and incense burning low, and the guards changing shifts. He caught Josephine’s eye on his way in, and she took care to avert her gaze, hurrying quickly to her own chambers.

Samson ascended the staircase, and paused. It was only just then he noticed the heraldry of the templars hanging on the stone wall, lonely and forlorn. He wondered if Hadiza had done it purposely, or if it were Cullen’s touch to the decor. Either way, Samson felt a familiar tug in his heart at the sight, and a nervous tremor in his bones as bloodier, and more recent memories were called up like spectres. He took a deep breath and continued his ascent. He could smell jasmine oil in the air, and it was unseasonably warm when he finally entered her large bedchamber. The balcony doors were shut, the curtains drawn, and a fire roared in the fireplace. Hadiza herself was not present, but the summons _had_ come from her. It was...discomfiting, being in her bedchamber without her. Samson wondered where he should sit, and opted instead to make his way to her desk. The moment he sat in her chair, he felt himself an intruder...an imposter.

The Inquisitor’s pet, truly. Is that not what he was?

Here he was, waiting like some loyal dog for his mistress to return and lavish him with her attention. And Samson felt sick knowing how much he craved it. Being parted from her felt as if he were locked away again in that cold, wind-blasted dungeon. Of all the people in Skyhold, Hadiza was the only true friendly face he could rely on. Her companions were varied depending on their moods, and even Master Dennet tolerated him on principle. Samson took tally of his life and found that friends were few and far between. Everything had a price, everything had a limit. There was no one he had ever been able to simply...be himself with. Save Maddox, of course, and even then it had been stifled; he was a mage, and Samson a templar. Their very friendship had been strictly prohibited.

Samson glanced around Hadiza’s desk. A stack of books on Orlesian nobility caught his eye, as well as a length of gold chain upon which a ring hung. He picked it up, studied it in the flickering light. It was a signet ring, the Trevelyan coat of arms beveled within the gold, surrounded by rubies. He smiled, setting it aside and reaching for one of the books on her desk. A quick thumb-through told him all he needed to know: she was doing research for her journey to Val Royeaux. Just thinking about her traveling for Maker knew how long, and without him to guard her back, aggravated him. He had gotten used to protecting her, even though there was little need. Hadiza’s barriers were all but unassailable.

“It’s boring reading, I know.” Hadiza’s voice filled the emptiness, rising from beneath the sound of the fire in the fireplace, and pulling him from a paragraph about the intricate tendrils of the Piedmont family tree. He glanced up, saw her silhouetted against backdrop of the night sky. She walked into the light, clad only in a white dress, the sleeves billowing and trailing. Her hair was loosed and combed, falling in thick profusive curls over her shoulders and down her back, and a simple gold circlet sat upon her head. Instinctively, Samson rose, but resisted the urge to kneel.

“Princess.” He greeted as she came to him. The distance closed too slowly, but soon she was in his arms, and Samson felt his doubt wash away as her arms came around him and she kissed him, gentle, her lips soft and warm against his. To him, it felt like a form of prayer.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” she breathed, “I was meeting with Ariadne. How was your day?”

“Better now that the work is done.” Samson replied, cupping her face, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. Hadiza smiled up at him, and Samson leaned in, kissing her again. Talking seemed so useless around her. Words never encompassed what he truly felt, only actions. When he was enraged, violence was the language he spoke, and when he loved...ah, _Maker_.

Hadiza’s laughter bubbled out of her as he swept her from her feet, carrying her to the bed.

“I am sorry.” She told him. “I wish you could accompany me. I wish for all the world to see the good man I know you are.”

“I am not a good man.” Samson grumbled, setting her on the bed. Hadiza sighed, leaning back on her hands.

“Not yet, no,” she said, “but you can and will be, Samson. I do not think mindless evil becomes you. It is not worthy of the man you should be.”

Samson frowned. “And what do you know of the man I should be, Inquisitor?” He demanded. “We’ve spoken of this before.”

Hadiza shrugged. “I know enough of who you were in Kirkwall. I know enough of what you told me during your trial. I could see it in your gaze that you were lost. You had no one to reach out to you save Corypheus. He pulled you from the ocean of uncertainty into the fire of zealous destruction.”

Samson stared at her. “And you? What are you doing?”

Hadiza canted her head. “I am pulling you onto the path that you may walk upright and make your own choice. And it would seem you have chosen to love me, is it not so?”

Samson hesitated before reaching for her with trembling hands. He’d only told her once, but the thought of saying it again terrified him, and so he nodded, his breath coming too short and quickly. Hadiza smiled, understanding, and drew him down to her.

He didn’t think he’d ever get used to how good it felt to simply be held. For a moment, he was content to simply lay there with her arms around him, kissing her with an indulgent abandon he didn’t think he deserved. Hadiza searched his face, her eyes glittering like stars as her brow knit in concern.

“What’s the matter?” She asked and Samson felt his heart leap in his chest. There was something in her tone when she voiced concerned that broke him. He leaned in, kissed her in response where words would always fail him. She kissed him back, cupping his face in her hands tenderly, even as his hand traveled along the svelte line of her body, squeezing her waist then her hips. Hadiza smiled into the kiss, and Samson smiled back, more to himself.

At her gentle insistence, she pressed her hands against his chest, and Samson moved, rolling onto his back, taking her with him as she laughed. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, curtaining them both from the flickering glow of the lamps on either side of her great bed. She stared down at him and Samson wondered at what went on behind those bright eyes. He reached up, traced the fullness of her mouth with his thumb. For someone who spent more time fighting than anyone he knew, she was so damned soft.

“You sure you don’t have work you need to be doing right about now?” He asked her, crookedly smiling. Hadiza kissed his thumb, then, shutting her eyes, sucked it into her mouth. The slick movement of her tongue made his mouth go dry, but he had his answer. Still, something made him uneasy.

“Princess.” He watched her come back to herself, glancing down at him, alert and attentive. “What are we doing?”

Hadiza blinked, still holding his hand, nearer to her breast. Samson ached to cup one but he needed her lucid.

“What do you mean?” She asked him. “I thought it was clear what we were doing…”

Samson sighed, taking his hand away. With a grunt of effort, he managed to sit up, propping himself against the headboard, thanking the Maker that Hadiza had an affinity for pillows. Sensing the change in mood, Hadiza relaxed, the heat in her eyes melting away as her expression became concerned.

“What’s wrong?” She asked him. Samson could not focus on her face, his gaze sliding away from hers, but she took his chin, tilting his gaze back toward hers. Then she cupped his cheek and wordlessly curved her mouth in that way that made _him_ feel more vulnerable than she looked in that moment.

“I’m just wondering what this all means,” he said quietly, “you gave me a year and a day to prove myself and...I’m just wondering what happens after. I’m sworn to the Inquisition for the rest of my life, however long that’ll be. But…”

Hadiza said nothing, but her gaze was steady. Samson drew back in on himself, trying to find his confidence. The words were there, floating out of order, and he was afraid what it would mean if he gave voice to them.

“How much of this is just a dalliance for you?” He asked her. “A quick walk on the dark side before you come back to your senses and--”

Hadiza placed her fingertips gently on his mouth.

“You will choose your next words wisely,” she said, the warning in her voice like steel wrapped in silk, “I know what you ask.”

She took her fingers away.

“Hadiza,” Samson began, feeling contrite, “I didn’t mean you’re foolish or anything like that. I’m just wondering what future we could possibly have.”

Hadiza drew back. “You want to do this now? Again? Samson we’ve talked about this. You...you _asked_ me if I wanted this and I told you yes.”

“And then we had sex,” Samson countered, “anyone would be agreeable when they’ve just had their--”

“Samson!” Hadiza snapped, and he tensed. “Please do not insult me. When I agreed to this, when we _both_ agreed we wanted this, I was sound in mind and body, and I am assuming when you asked me you were as well. If you’re having second thoughts you should tell me. But…” Hadiza placed her hand on his bare chest, breathing deep in time to the strong surety of his heartbeat.

“My thoughts and my feelings for you have not changed, Samson.” She told him. “If it is gossip you are afraid of then I will give them something to talk about soon enough. But it changes nothing. I…”

She felt herself suddenly unable to say it. Not because she could not, but because the words were too heavy for her tongue. If she spoke them, the weight would pass, but it would leave her open. So _open_.

“I love you.” She whispered. The words were so quiet, floating between them like wayward dandelion seeds. Samson stared at her, his expression caught between incredulity and shock. It was not as if she hadn’t spoken those words to him before; no, she’d said the words before but somehow it meant more _now_ than it did then. There was something so ineffably guileless about her that made his heart ache.

Hadiza kept her hand on his chest, matching her breathing to his, and she could feel his heart leap and then race, hurtling toward her, eager to beat in her sure hands. His chest expanded in a deep breath, and words dissolved on his tongue, rendered useless in his mouth, a bell with no clapper. Hadiza stared at him too, afraid of what it meant to speak those words again, unprompted. But they did not encompass the gamut of what she felt--nothing could.

She was wholeheartedly convinced that _this_ was the work of a divine hand to move her heart so strongly. There were none of the raw green shoots of burgeoning love in this, nor the forceful and all-consuming passion of lust. It was so much **more** , and as she held his gaze, she felt the echo of that nameless thing in her marrow. She resisted the urge to throw her arms around him and pull him closer, even as she felt the slight tremor of his body. Fear? Apprehension? Anger? Hadiza could not tell, she knew only the truth she carried and shared with him.

Slowly, trembling, Samson took her hand in his, lifted it to his lips, and shut his eyes, kissing each of her knuckles with a private reverence reserved for altars, incense, and prayers spoken to the silence of heaven. She could never know what those words meant to him, and he hoarded the easiness of how much she had come to mean to him jealously. Love, like all things, did not come freely, and yet everyday he waited for the price of his choice to come, and everyday he chose again and again. Hadiza smiled, moving closer, her gaze questioning.

Unbidden, his arms came around her and he pulled her close for an embrace, because he could not muster the courage or strength for much else in that moment. They lingered in that embrace for a long while, and Hadiza felt something warm and wet on her shoulder, and knew it would taste of salt, and so she held him tighter to her and let him release the rawness of this new reality. Once, she turned her head, brushing her lips gently against his temple, whispering to him words that would follow them to their graves. He shuddered in her arms, willing himself to composure, his hands clenching at her back before he released her. Hadiza pulled back to look at him.

“If you believe in nothing else,” she whispered, “I need you to believe in that.”

Samson shut his eyes in a quiet assent as she leaned in to kiss his tear-moistened lips. As the kiss deepened, his grip on her waist grew surer, bolder, and soon it was as if the night were a smeared watercolor of sensations. Samson knew come the dawn he would keep this memory alongside so many others, and he would stubbornly take it with him to his grave if he could. He vowed, in the private chambers of his heart, that he’d not let the lyrium steal these precious moments from him.

As for Hadiza, she took her predecessor’s advice, and took what moments of joy she could before the world came to take the rest.

Later, they lay beneath the blankets, limbs tangled as they reclined in languor, sweat slick on their skin, the fire burning low. Samson’s fingertips idly caressed the curve of Hadiza’s hip, while her fingers threaded through the coarse hair on his chest.

“So,” Samson murmured, his voice slurred with residual pleasure, “this Comte.” In truth he had no real intention to care about the Comte de Piedmont. Hadiza chuckled, her voice equally slurred.

“Doesn’t stand a chance.” She murmured as Samson turned his head to brush his lips over her forehead. He squeezed her hip, making her press her body closer to his. The air felt cooler for want of the sweat that slicked their skin. His lower back burned from exertion, but he felt loose-limbed and relaxed.

“Be careful over there, princess.” He said to her. “You yoked me to your Inquisition, but the promise I made was to you, not all this.” He gestured around, indicating Skyhold and the Inquisition held within. Hadiza blinked.

“To me?” She asked. “Only me?”

Samson chuckled. “Yes, Inquisitor. You’re the only one in this world I can see worth fighting for. But I won’t be there to guard you, though I’ve seen how well you handle yourself.”

Hadiza smiled slyly, tugging gently at his chest hair.

“Samson are you... _jealous_?” She asked. “Are those the warning growls of a jealous man, I hear?”

“I’m not jealous.” Samson said sharply. “Just saying be careful is all. Not a single Orlesian I’ve met ever wanted to do anyone a good turn, and you least of all.” He hesitated, then slid his hand up her back, tangling his fingers in her hair.

“Might be I’m a bit miffed that stuff-shirt lordling’s making a pass at you.” He muttered crossly. Hadiza laughed.

“It’s nothing serious, Samson,” she assured him, “Orlesians care more for status and appearances than anything else. The idea of courting the Inquisitor is far more appealing than actually marrying her. Deep down, everyone knows my title and status are merely temporary, and as illustrious as the Trevelyan name is...it does not offer much by way of advantages to an Orlesian Comte.” She reached up, patting his cheek. “Aside, I’ve only eyes for one man in my life.”

Samson grunted, turning to kiss her fingertips.

“Small wonder why that man is me of all people.”

Hadiza smiled. “What must I say or do to convince you I am genuine, Samson? I have risked my reputation and good name to be seen with you, and given the chance, I would do so again.”

Samson stared at her. “Would you?” He asked, seriously.

Hadiza held his gaze. “Yes.” She did not so much as blink at his shocked expression. “I don’t...I don’t know what any of this means, Samson. I just know what I feel is right. And this? It feels right. Mayhap the Maker or Andraste herself saw to it that we be like this. Many dismiss such romantic notions...but I like to believe that there are many paths to healing what has been hurt.”

Samson felt the old resentment well up in his blood like a sickness. He disliked the notion that the Maker would involve Himself in such affairs as concerned the heart, but despite everything, part of him wanted to believe. He had asked himself on more than one occasion, what just and loving Maker would let his templars suffer so; what just and loving Maker would punish him for the very act of kindness the Chant preached all the faithful should practice? Samson could see few bright spots in his past that made everything worth it. And then there was Hadiza, who believed so strongly that he could be a good man again that she was willing to risk her own reputation to prove it.

Samson thought, with an uncomfortable mixture of guilt and shame, that he was ready to simply let her. And he knew it was unfair to her, to let her do all the work. He had to prove it...he had to meet her halfway. He glanced down at her, found her fast asleep, her hand relaxed and limp in his own. He kissed her knuckles gently, shutting his eyes. Perhaps she was a sign from the Maker, perhaps not. Either way, love bloomed in his heart like spring in a barren land. He held onto her, and as the night deepened and the fire burned low, he slept at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what to do. Leave one. ✌


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got a little lengthy. My bad, y'all. Have some self-indulgent pining.

The morning Hadiza and her entourage were to leave, Samson felt agitated. He had not been summoned to her the night prior, and so his parting with her would be in public, where he could not hold and kiss her and wish her absolute safety and joy without feeling like a lovesick fool. Instead, as the Inquisitor--for that was the mask she wore--rode out ahead of the train of carts and wagons trundling along behind her--a parade of supplicants and supplies, it seemed. Samson stood alongside Master Dennet, quiet and reserved, the cheering around him deafening.

She was beautiful in the morning sunlight, her armor gleamed gold, freshly polished, a cloak of deep, forest green, emblazoned with the Inquisition sword and eye motif and trimmed with gold spread along the haunches of her Friesian. Her hair was pulled back into a single braid, and she wore the circlet of gold inlaid with jewels as befitting a daughter of House Trevelyan. Her advisors--Cullen and Josephine respectively--rode behind her. He watched as she turned, and it seemed to him she was looking for him. Their gazes met, and she lifted her hand to wave to the crowd, and he knew it was for him. He allowed himself a small smile, and inclined his head slowly, bidding his princess farewell.

Hadiza saw Samson and felt her heart leap. She ached for him! Maker, it was something, this deep and consuming love. It was like the stories said and then some! She saw him smile--she knew he was smiling!--and waved goodbye. It did not feel permanent, but Hadiza longed for him to ride by her side, her knight in tarnished armor. She longed to make the statement to the world that change was possible if purpose could be reshaped and renewed. But she knew, to some, that they would warp the perception; they would obfuscate the truth and see Samson as a mere trophy of conquest; a **beast** she had tamed to her service. Hadiza thought, not for the first time, that it was for the best he did not accompany her. Still, she longed to have him at her side all the same.

Instead, like so many missions before, she rode alone, painfully aware that she was--above all else--their leader.

The fanfare of Skyhold bidding the Inquisitor farewell carried along the winding path, through the makeshift tent and shack city that had sprung up around it. Children laughed and shrieked as she rode by, and she smiled at them. Parents scolded these self-same children, chiding for them to stay off the road that Her Worship and her entourage may pass. Hadiza wondered not for the first time what to do in such situations. She was well-loved by the people, but Hadiza knew being well-loved did not mean she was one of them. She was reminded constantly that even without her title, she came from a life of wealth and privilege. In the Circle, she had been treated gently, and when the opportunity arose, had been thrust into the limelight in hopes of using her nobility to soften the blow upon the Circle in Ostwick.

It was a perpetually alienating thing, and Hadiza disliked it. Still, she rode on, until Skyhold and its community fell away behind her, and until the silence of the Frostbacks stretched on beyond her.

The caravan picked a careful and slow path down the mountains deeper into Orlais, and soon the bracing cold of the mountains gave way to the lush, wavering flatlands of the Orlesian countryside. Hadiza breathed a little deeper, smiling. Without the added ugliness of Orlesian frippery and elitism, the country itself was beautiful.

 _Well, it did once belong to the ancient elves_. Hadiza thought, then glanced back, just as Vivienne brought her own mount up alongside her. Hadiza sighed inwardly, expecting a lecture, but was surprised to find Vivienne smiling gently. Perhaps returning to Orlais and ostensibly to the Game served to please and invigorate her. Hadiza had not thought much of that.

“So, the Comte de Piedmont has finally found a way to turn the eyes and ears of the Court to him for a time,” Vivienne mused, “I must commend you, darling, the Visage du Soleil is a prestigious guild of performers, and to have them take a commission to bring your adventures and deeds to the world stage will ascertain your place on every Orlesian tongue in every corner of Thedas.”

Hadiza laughed. “I’m beginning to think this Visage du Soleil has more clout than Empress Celene herself the way everyone goes on about them. What makes them so prestigious?”

“Why, their art, darling.” Vivienne said, still amused, but more at the fact that for all her knowledge, Hadiza was still ignorant of such poetic niceties as this. “The Visage du Soleil cultivates only the most innately talented and disciplined of artists; poets, bards, dancers, and players from all over Thedas. The ones who shine brightest enjoy the favors of patronage at the behest of wealthy benefactors in the Imperial Court. Many retire to lives of leisure, and find places teaching their art in schools and even the university.”

Hadiza adjusted her reins, and sighed.

“So they are somewhat like the Circle of Magi, then, except they are allowed out in the open.”

Vivienne laughed. “Oh aren’t you precious? No, they are _nothing_ like the Circle of Magi, though I can see how one could easily draw to that conclusion. I suppose given your limited experience that you’re bound to compare everything to the Circle. But no, Visage du Soleil is about as much like the Circle as a brothel is to a chateau. Visage du Soleil is an elite guild. It is strictly by invitation and everything surrounding the prerequisites for joining is kept completely secret.”

“No wonder Orlesians speak so highly of it,” Hadiza muttered dryly, “it contains all the ingredients of the Game.”

“And none of the limitations of noble decorum,” Vivienne said, “although they operate on their own set of laws and mannerisms. For the most part, all you need know is that their interest in you is highly favorable. Comte du Piedmont’s patronage aside, none of the Imperial Court will remember anything save the ballet.”

Hadiza pursed her lips. “Remind me why we accepted, again? Corypheus is dead and Thedas on its way to stabilization. Why do we need Orlais’ approval?”

Vivienne canted her head, giving Hadiza a shrewd look. Hadiza frowned.

“Right. If we’d like to be able to operate unimpeded, we need to make a show of cooperation with our neighbors.” She rattled off the reasons like a catechism. “Our army is bigger, more powerful, and answers to me and no one else…”

Vivienne smiled wryly. “Indeed. And while that is well and good, we cannot let those who would see your power dismantled gain too loud a voice. So yes, we must play the part, but you must also remind them that you are your own force to be reckoned with and that it would be most unwise to attempt to try you.”

Hadiza laughed. “You make me sound like some untouchable sovereign.”

Vivienne turned her gaze ahead. “Because you are, darling. You are the Inquisitor. No other person in the world can claim as much. You act as the sword of the faith, but with deference to the Divine. You are the representation of hope, of power, of everything one should aspire to, both for mages and everyone else. You have made your position as a capable and great leader unassailable. Honestly, I could not have done a finer a job myself.”

Hadiza smiled sheepishly. “High praise from Madame de Fer, indeed. Thank you, truly. You were apart of that, you know.”

“Oh I know it, darling. Still, I merely offered counsel. It was completely up to you if you heeded it or no. But I must say, this... _thing_ you have with the former Red Templar General stands to undo the work you’ve done and the image you have created for yourself. If you value my counsel you’ll heed it now: end things with him.”

Hadiza bristled. She had become--in the long months since she and Samson came to an agreement about where they stood one another--highly protective of him. It was not that she sought to absolve him of all wrongdoing. It was only that she wanted some good to come of this, and if it came from him, why should it have mattered to anyone?

“I have no idea what you mean, Madame de Fer.” Hadiza said airily. “He is yoked to my service, which means he will work for me in any capacity I see fit.”

Vivienne raised a brow. “And in what capacity does he serve in the Inquisitor’s bedchamber, Hadiza? Gossip kills quicker than any poison, and if you are not circumspect, your actions will damn you long before any rivals can.”

Hadiza looked away, sullen.

“What difference does it make, Vivienne? He is mine to command, and he does no harm to anyone anymore. His defeat in the Arbor Wilds, I believe, was his last.”

“Be that as it may…” Vivienne said, her voice hot with irritation, “...nevermind. I can see you will do only as you please in this matter. I can but warn you, no more. But next time you summon him, he had better find a way other than through the main hall to reach you.”

Hadiza glanced at her sharply. “I’ll not have him climbing up the scaffolding like some brigand, Vivienne.”

“Why not? That is what he has always been, my dear.”

Hadiza felt her face grow hot. Nothing she said could sway Vivienne from this, and so she said no more on the matter, ending the conversation. In a game of wits, Madame de Fer would always win. She was simply too sharp around the edges for Hadiza to out-maneuver, and so silence was her best option...especially when it came to Samson.

The caravan was slow--painfully slow--and by the time it reached the end of its long wind down the mountains and finally began to make its way toward the main road, it was time to camp. Setting up camp was a chaotic affair, but between Josephine and Cullen’s orders and expertise, the caravan became a miniature village. Food was served, and watch rotations were posted. Hadiza felt, for a rare moment of expedient glee, unburdened by worry. She had become acclimated to traveling with only three or four of her companions on the road, and making camp with only them in attendance, with watches shared between them. She had become used to the heavy quiet of the night, of the darkness barely being beaten back by a single campfire. Now, along the hills, dozens of tiny campfires dotted the landscape, and voices chattered into the night. And she, for once, had to do precious little save be there. With so much time on her hands, Hadiza opted to take a stroll.

The blanket of the night sky was dusted with stars and blurred with wisps of cloud. The moons were barely visible, with one waxing halfway, and the other barely a crescent sliver hanging beneath it, cupping the other like a half-formed pearl. Hadiza stood on the rise of a grassy knoll, and looked down to see the silvery light of the moon and stars painting the heavy, fleshy leaves of a royal elfroot. Idly, she bent down, fetching her boot knife and cutting it to put in her pack. It was more habit than anything, but she would have rather not broken a habit that involved gathering potent and rare healing herbs while traveling.

The snap of a twig sent her whirling, jeweled dagger drawn, and a spell crackling in her palm.

It was Thom Rainier. She sighed with relief, sheathing the dagger and dousing her spell with an exhale.

“Guess I should be glad I gave fair warning, first.” He said with a laugh. Hadiza smiled, giving a droll shrug as the wind sent loose strands of her hair to tickle her face.

“I guess so,” she said, “I don’t think a true enemy would have waited for me to be prepared anyway.”

“Not unless they were sure they could win, you mean.” Thom corrected, crossing his arms. “I just came to check in on you. I know you’ve got a lot to deal with. Some noble summons you to a fancy party, and you’ve got to dance and play the Game again. I know how much you hate that.”

Hadiza laughed. “I do. It’s so ridiculous. And thank you. I’m just...not used to all this, still.”

“What? Being waited on hand and foot?” Thom laughed derisively. Hadiza resisted the urge to bristle and laughed airily instead.

“No.” She said. “ _That_ , I will never tire of. I mean...the crowd. I’ve grown accustomed to it just being you, me, and a handful of others. Out in the thick of the wilds getting into Maker knows what kind of mayhem. We moved much faster too.”

“I can see why that would bother you,” Thom said, “but I can also see it’s more than that as well. Recent addition to the team, perhaps?”

Hadiza sucked her teeth in annoyance. Would no one leave the matter be?

“If you are looking for a confession, you’ll find none here, Thom.” She said hotly. “And I’d appreciate if everyone would stop giving me shit about it...just this once.”

Thom’s expression shifted, and for a moment Hadiza didn’t think he could look much more like a kicked dog than in that instant. She felt somewhat remorseful for having snapped at him.

“I’m sorry.” She said, her smile rueful and heavy with uncertainty, “We’re still figuring things out.”

“I should apologize too, my lady.” Thom said. “I’m the last person who should judge your choice of lovers. From what I’ve seen, he’s a good man beneath it all, and the work we do seems to bring it out of him. Maker knows he’s proven his mettle down in the Deep Roads these weeks past.”

Hadiza smiled grimly. “Your vote of confidence is reassuring, Thom. And I wish it were as simple as him doing good deeds around Thedas, but you and I both know it’s not...we’re not even sure what this is or what we’re doing.”

Thom snorted. “If everyone knew everything there was to know about love, we’d all be a damned sight more content with our lot in life, I think. But you’ve always had a good heart, Hadiza. A bit too good sometimes, but you’ve done more for us and Thedas than anyone in recent memory.” He glanced around. “It may not seem like it now, but the people will come to appreciate what you’ve done for the less reputable of us.”

Hadiza laughed. “Speaking of yourself, or someone else?” She asked coyly, smiling wider at the bloom of color in Thom’s cheeks.

“What you did for me was…” He looked down. “I can’t abide you using your power to strong arm me out of jail, milady, don’t ask me to. But I know you, and I know you’d never do it unless you had good reason.”

“You are one of my most staunch and loyal companions, Thom,” Hadiza said quietly, “and despite what you may think, you have always been a good man to me. Whatever you have done in the past is already set and cannot be changed. But based on your deeds alongside me I believe you deserve an opportunity to atone and shape your future.”

“And you, milady?” Thom asked. “How will you shape yours?”

Hadiza hesitated. “I...I don’t know, Thom. Truth be told, I’m making up this Inquisitor shit as I go. Not as if I have any other Inquisitors with which to compare notes; but if the historical accounts are accurate, I’ll not let my legacy become one of blood, steel, and oppression. If I can keep the prisons and gallows empty, and the chopping block dry, then more’s the better.”

“A lofty and noble goal,” Thom remarked idly, “but when we’re gone and our bones are dust who can say how future generations will interpret what we’ve done here? For all we know, they’ll brand you a tyrant.” He turned his gaze heavenward, toward the mighty silhouette of the Frostbacks against the star-spangled sky, ignoring the brief but withering look Hadiza limned him with. “I’ll not take up more of your time, just wanted to see how you fared is all. Try to get some sleep. We’re moving much slower with all these civilians, so Val Royeaux’s a bit farther than I remember.”

Hadiza nodded. “I know. Thank you, Thom.”

She watched him go, and after a half hour more of standing in the darkness, she picked her path back to her tent. It was strange too, to enter the tent and find only herself within. Without Samson, she felt isolated from the others again. No one would come to disturb her lest it was important, and that meant there was no one to talk to in the night either. How quickly he’d burrowed into the parts of her heart she’d filled with other things! She almost hated him for it, but it was not his fault. She just hoped, as she lay her head down to sleep for the evening, that his heart was as restless as her own.

* * *

The first day without her was hard, but he’d admit that to no one. Samson was good at retaining what remained of his pride. Still, he felt a deep, abiding anger at the reason he was here and not by her side to begin with. He filled his day with whatever hard labor needed to be done, and found a calmness in getting his hands dirty. He helped tend to the garden, though he took care to avoid Mother Giselle, who seemed keen on trying to corner him to talk. He helped organize stone shipped in from the various quarries, and the ruined tower in Skyhold was beginning to form anew with each day. Knight-Captain Rylen lent his expertise via correspondence from Griffon Wing Keep, coordinating back and forth with Commander Cullen’s chain of command in order to lay the stone properly. Samson was no stone-layer nor a builder, but he was highly trainable, and thus, the men tolerated him if for nothing else than for having the relief of an extra pair of hands.

When he was not working or eating, he was in his cell. No summons came for him for there were none authorized to summon him save for labor. He found himself reading the books Hadiza had left for him. Even then, however, he thought of little else but her when he read, unable to focus on the words. He knew what this was, these nascent stages of love that had him sick with longing. He’d thought himself too old and cynical to experience it, but he knew it, from the freefall in his stomach to the leap of his heart when he thought of her. If he could not find someway to focus he’d go mad with it.

Part of his duties involved cleaning the latrines, which he laughed at when first he was handed the bucket and cleaning rags. In his youth, when he’d scarce breathed his vows, latrine duty and kitchen duty were the most dreaded of the punishments for any recruit. Speak out of line to a superior, cross the wrong instructor, or find oneself in the sights of an angry knight-captain, and you’d find yourself scrubbing the latrines for weeks, or faced with mountains of dishes during meal hours. In his youth, Samson had done more than his fair share of winding up with both tasks, having had a penchant for being a bit fast and loose in the mouth. He learned quickly, as all recruits had, and did his duty without complaint.

So when the smug Inquisition soldier handed him his cleaning gear, Samson paid him little mind, even when he ‘accidentally’ kicked over the bucket, spilling soapy water all over the floor. Samson said nothing, kneeling down to collect the bucket as the soldier left, cackling to himself, the smug bastard. Alone in the rancid room, Samson went to the well to fetch more water. It was a long walk across the grounds, but it felt longer. Eyes tracked him wherever he went, deep lulls in conversations like the distant murmur of a river, only to rise again when he was out of range.

He focused intently on his goal, passing through the infirmary, grimacing that even now there were still men and women abed from injuries sustained in the last great battle against Corypheus. Some had perished from red lyrium poisoning, and their bodies would not burn so much as crumble. Dagna had been in charge of directing the healers how to handle the corrupted dead. Samson looked away from it all, passing through the infirmary as quickly as his legs could carry him, noting the open disdain with which the healers--both mage and not--smeared him with as he did. Some made signs against him to ward off evil, others pinched their faces as if he was the foulest smelling creature they’d ever seen. It did not sting him as he thought it would, but he knew he would have to take care not to sustain any injuries or he’d find no succor to soothe his ailments.

The well was located within the garden, wreathed in roses. The bucket was sturdy, reinforced with tin, and the water was cold and clean and fresh, drawn from deep within the ancient breast of the mountain in which Skyhold sat. As Samson uncovered the well and began to lower the bucket, Mother Giselle came to him from across the way. As always, Samson wanted to bolt like a fennec caught in a hunter’s sights, but he was anchored by his task. With a deep breath and a silent prayer sent to the Maker for strength, Samson prepared himself.

“Good afternoon, Ser Samson.” Mother Giselle said kindly, standing like a small statue across the open mouth of the well. Samson drew the first bucket, emptied it into the pail on the ground.

“Just Samson, Mother.” He replied gruffly, lowering the bucket again. Mother Giselle inclined her head.

“You may no longer be part of the Order, Ser Samson,” she said, “but you still serve, do you not?”

“Not the Maker, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Samson said, emptying another bucket into the large pail. Maker! It wasn’t even halfway; just how long would have to endure the old bat’s philosophical prattling?

“One does not need to kneel at the feet of the Holy Bride to serve the Maker, you know.” Mother Giselle said wryly. “Everything we do serves Him in some way, do you not agree?”

Samson snorted. “You propose to guess at the Maker’s purpose for us, Mother? Or you prying just to see what nerves you can hit?” He demanded nastily. Mother Giselle was calm in the face of his open hostility. Samson’s lips twisted into a sneer, his rheumy eyes hard.

“I would never be so presumptuous as to dictate what plan the Maker has for us all,” she said, “I merely believe that perhaps even now what we do and how we do it serves a greater purpose. All rivers lead to the ocean, as the saying goes.”

Samson snorted derisively, drawing up another bucket.

“What do you want?” He asked her. “You’ve been dogging my heels for weeks. I’ve made it clear I want no part of the mindless worship you lot engage in.” He looked down, suddenly unable to meet her open and warm gaze. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. “Just want to...do my time and put things to right as best I can.”

“I merely wished to talk, Ser Samson,” she said, ignoring his bristle at the honorific, “I have seen that you are always alone, unless you are in the stables or...with Her Worship. I thought mayhap even you would like some company on the days Her Worship cannot be here to oblige you.”

Samson slammed the bucket down on the lip of the well harder than he intended.

“What Her Worship does is none of your Maker bedamned business, Mother,” he ground out, “and if I want company, I’ll chat up my babysitter in my cell at the end of the day. He’s always good for a laugh. But the last thing I need is some holier-than-thou Chantry peddler trying to force their way into what little I’ve got to myself.”

Mother Giselle said nothing and Samson stared at her from across the well, gripping the bucket so hard his knuckles turned bloodless from the effort. Had he been full of the red, he could have easily crushed the bucket to splinters and rent metal, but he was not. He was just a mortal man, one faced with increasingly mortal dilemmas.

“It is just a suggestion, Samson,” she said at last, dropping the honorific as if in surrender, “everyone needs friends...everyone deserves to be lent an ear or a shoulder to lean on in hard times. Even you.”

Samson watched her go, still scowling. He finished fetching the water, and with a grunt, lugged the pail back to the latrines. By that time, he could smell and see that they’d been recently used. Swallowing against the rising bile in his throat, he clung to his memories of Kirkwall, reminding himself that he’d smelled worse--quite literally--and went about his business.

At least, for those hours, his thoughts were not consumed by _her_.

* * *

By the time they reached Val Royeaux, Hadiza was all too glad for the isolation granted her by her position. She tired of the quiet disapproval of her companions, and yet, she was angry with them. They had seen Samson in the field--had fought alongside him--and he wasn’t even here and _now_ they made their tacit disappointment clear? Well, they were all cowards as far as she was concerned. Better they snub him when he was here to at least feel it than project it onto her. Hadiza stewed in her anger quietly, until Varric called her out of it.

“You look like you’re ready to fry the next person who asks if you’re alright,” he said, “so I’m just going to assume you’re fine and ask instead if you’re up for a game of Wicked Grace later.”

Hadiza fixed him with a tempered stare. Varric merely stared back. After a moment, she deflated with a sigh.

“I’m just a bit eager to see this sojourn end is all,” she murmured, “and I doubt I’d be much good at Wicked Grace tonight.”

Varric laughed. “Kind of the point, Inquisitor. How else am I supposed to take your money?”

Hadiza laughed too despite the growing headache radiating from her temples. She turned her gaze ahead, and Val Royeaux glimmered like a jewel in the distance, pristine white walls, pennants flying from spires reaching toward the sky, and statues of various rulers from Orlesian history. Once, this place had dazzled her with its beauty. Pennants, banners, heraldry, and silk festooned in the Summer Bazaar had made her head spin from the over the top decorations. Everything about the city felt alive in a way that reminded her of Ostwick and did not. Ostwick was a city that bloomed and hummed with a quiet, pious pulse of activity, but Val Royeaux was a garden of riotous colors and sounds.

Now, after having seen the beast lurking behind the mask of the Orlesian Empire, Hadiza did not so much as twitch an awestruck lash in the direction of the massive statues. She saw the cracks in the facade, and in some part of herself was disappointed in how hollow and false the city now felt to her. She reminded herself why she came, and breathed a little easier. She did not, however, look forward to meeting the Comte de Piedmont in any capacity.

As hollow and false as it was, many of the nobility in the city turned out to greet the Inquisitor and her entourage, and Hadiza sat up straighter in the saddle, knowing she cut a fine and noble profile in her armor, astride her Friesian. Even Nyx seemed to be putting on a bit of a show, lifting his legs just a little higher as he marched through the wide streets. On either side of her rode Cullen and Josephine, with Josephine reminding Cullen why they were there. He gave a stern look to some, but managed a smile or two amidst the fanfare.

At the end of the long march awaited the Comte’s retainers and men-at-arms. His seneschal, a willowy man of middling years, greeted Hadiza with a reverent bow from his own saddle.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan,” he said, his voice surprisingly resonant amidst the din, “on behalf of his grace the Comte de Piedmont, we bid you welcome to Val Royeaux.”

Hadiza kept her face as neutral as she could, and remembering Vivienne’s encouragement, smiled.

“You have my thanks,” she said diplomatically, “I trust your men will see to it that my entourage is taken care of?”

The seneschal’s face was hidden by a mask, but his eyes glimmered in a smile.

“But of course, Your Worship,” he said, “our retainers will see to it that they are housed and fed here in the city. You and your advisors will of course be escorted to the chateau proper. His grace awaits you there.”

Hadiza smiled as the only sign of her agreement with the arrangement and bid the seneschal lead the way.

Thus did they pass through the city proper, making their way further inland, where the crowded buildings, townhouses, inns, taverns, and shops gave way to stately mansions and chateaus with sprawling grounds. They rode for perhaps thirty minutes before coming upon a sizeable chateau surrounded by a white wall. Guards stood on either side of the golden gates, the bars wreathed with vines upon which pale flowers bloomed. Upon closer inspection, Hadiza saw that the flowers were indeed roses, and surmised the Comte must have had the plants bred to grow on a vine rather than a bush. The vines also had thorns and that made Hadiza raise a brow. She made a note in her mind to inquire about the nature of this strange breed of rose.

The gates opened, and accompanied only by her advisors and her companions, Hadiza followed the seneschal and the men-at-arms down the gravel drive, around an ornate fountain where two golden statues twined around one another, the water cascading down their backs, given the appearance of them having been drenched in rain. Hadiza was reminded briefly of the waterfall in the Hinterlands, and Samson’s lips on her throat. She flushed beneath her dark skin, and tried not to squirm in her saddle from the memory.

The party dismounted, and stable hands dressed in Piedmont livery of fustian velvet dyed black and highever weave piping came to collect their mounts. Hadiza felt the need to stretch thoroughly after having been in the saddle for so many days, but she would reserve that pleasure for when she was finally assigned her quarters and had a proper bath run. In the meanwhile, she held her helmet under her arm, and watched as the Comte de Piedmont emerged from his home to welcome them. Whatever Hadiza had expected of the Comte, it was not what she was met with.

He was taller than her, she could tell, and broad in the shoulders. He wore a mask, as was the wont of all Orlesian nobility, but it was a half mask, leaving his mouth and jaw exposed. He was clean-shaven from what she could see, and her wore what she could only describe as understated clothing. His elegance was simple where the rest of Orlais was extravagant, and she noted belatedly that there were feathers plumed on his cap. He was a chevalier; she had nearly forgotten.

 _Thank the Maker for the small mercies of Orlesian arrogance._ She thought wryly.

Hadiza swallowed, watching him descend the steps. He was flanked by no one, but the way he stood before the assembled party, she realized that he did not need to be. Vivienne had either understated his influence and presence, or she truly did not reckon him anyone truly noteworthy.

“Lady Inquisitor,” he greeted, and without thinking Hadiza offered her gauntleted hand. The Comte held it in a firm grasp, but did not lift it to his lips for the courtesy kiss of greeting. Instead he merely held it, applied a bit of pressure just between her fingers, where the glove was exposed. Whatever muscle he pressed made the ache in her left hand ease and she swallowed a moan of relief before it escaped.

“Comte de Piedmont,” Hadiza breathed, “you do us a great honor with this invitation.”

The Comte released her hand slowly, and Hadiza lowered it, surprised at her own reluctance to do so.

“It is no trouble, Your Worship,” he said, his voice warm and resonant, “I merely seek to immortalize your heroism on the only stage worth watching in this world. You will excuse my lack of decorum, it is just that I have heard you were beautiful, but I do not think the poets have done you justice.”

Hadiza found herself smiling despite herself.

“Now you flatter me, Comte,” she said, “but thank you.”

The Comte smiled and Hadiza hated that it was pleasant. He invited them inside and they followed. Cullen shot Hadiza a questioning look and she shrugged. It was part of the Game, and she had to remind herself of this. This handsome chevalier merely needed the appearance of courtship to bolster his status, he would never follow through. Aside, if he did ask, Hadiza would be obligated to say no. Handsome as the man was from what she could see, her heart was back at Skyhold, and that realization served to anchor her.

Hadiza knew from the moment she and the others passed through the vestibule that the Comte was no typical Orlesian fop. He was a patron of the arts, to be sure, as evident from the artwork that hung on the walls, the sculptures that guarded the arched doorways, and the general atmosphere of the chateau. It felt less hollow than most places in Orlais where she’d been invited as a guest. If she had expected the Comte de Piedmont to be something of the usual, he surprised her by not being anything but the gentleman.

“I hope you do not mind, Inquisitor, I recently returned from an excursion to Rivain,” he told her, “they make a very strong chocolate that I have become fond of. Most Orlesians find it exceedingly bitter but it dissolves well in warm milk and provides a very unique flavor.”

Hadiza raised her brows. “That sounds intriguing, my lord,” she said, her tone genuine, “but I hope you do not mean to offer us refreshment before we are offered our quarters and a chance to wash the harsh touch of the road from our skin?”

The Comte smiled again and Hadiza swallowed.

“But of course, Your Worship. My seneschal shall show you all to your quarters. Servants shall fetch you for the evening meal promptly at sundown.”

Thus were they met, and the seneschal did in fact show Hadiza and her companions to the guest wing of the chateau. For Hadiza, she was given a sumptuous suite of rooms that oddly reminded her of her quarters in Skyhold. The carpet was plush, likely imported from Nevarra. A large sleigh bed took up the far wall with a balcony on the adjacent wall. There was a desk of course, and a bookcase with an assortment of Orlesian literature, and upon closer inspection, a copy of _Hard in Hightown_. Hadiza sighed, remembering that the book had been all the rage some seasons past according to Vivienne.

She inspected the bathing chamber and sighed with relief when she found a large, claw-footed tub, cast in gold and spacious enough for at least three people, at the center beneath a glass atrium. There were also fragrant jasmine blooms all over and Hadiza knew that Etienne had done this purposely, likely when it was revealed her mother was Rivaini. She knew for a fact that most Orlesians scoffed at anyone darker than a farmer’s tan, so for him to take this careful consideration--and spend this exorbitant amount of money on jasmine this far south--was a mark of his dedication to the ruse.

She smiled, and pulled the cord to summon the servants. With alacrity, there were two elven servants, dressed in fine clothes, ready to attend.

“I’d like a bath drawn,” Hadiza said absently, watching as her trunks were hauled into her rooms, and opened as servants stocked the wardrobe with her fine clothes. A separate trunk held her armor and weapons, as well as her spellbooks, which she warded herself to prevent tampering.

“Also,” she added, “might you trouble your lord and tell him to delay the evening meal for at least an hour? I’d like to look my best.”

“At once, mistress.” They said in unison, and made to do her bidding. Hadiza left the bathing chamber to examine the windows and doors leading to the balcony. When she emerged, she gasped slightly. Her room overlooked the gardens, immaculately kept. It was not a riot of color, like her garden in Skyhold, but a well-manicured and orderly pavane of roses arrayed in a maze. At its center was a fountain and she squinted, spotting lily pads floating serenely on the surface of the bottom pool. A pair of birds the color of the sky, chased one another in a dizzying dance. They spiraled upward until Hadiza lost track of them in the dazzling light of the sun. By the time she returned from the balcony into the room proper, she could hear the sound of the bath being prepared. The vanity provided had already been decorated with her cosmetics and she chose from her vast array of oils, the rose oil she loved so dearly. She considered the starlight oil but remembered Remy’s scathing remarks that everyone in Orlais had caught onto the trend after her dazzling debut at Halamshiral a year ago.

When the servants retreated, Hadiza stripped down and sank into the steaming water with a groan. She had been too long on the road--too long without a proper bath. She washed her hair, nigh drowning herself as she scrubbed the weeks of grime and dirt from it, detangling as she went. When at last she emerged, hair waterlogged and glistening, she scrubbed herself down, using a razor to scrape away the hair under her arms, along her legs, and trimming the hair along her sex until it was manageable. Thus groomed, Hadiza concluded her bath by rinsing with an ewer of fresh water. A towel and robe were provided, neatly folded on the marble countertop. To her delight, she touched them and found them warm, and spotted the runes along the marble countertop’s edge, designed to warm whatever was placed upon it. Hadiza made a note to sketch these runes out and see to it that she implemented it back at Skyhold. Would that she’d thought of such a thing after Haven when she thought she’d never be warm again!

With her hair wrapped in a towel and herself wrapped in a thick robe, Hadiza took her time preparing for the evening meal. She sat in front of the mirror of her vanity, smiling at her fresh faced reflection. She traced the thin scar on her temple, feeling it thicken as it vanished beneath her hair. It was still tender there when she pressed, but it was healed, the scar tissue thick and oily. Sighing, Hadiza styled her hair into a simple coif, opting for minimal cosmetic. A dab of Rivaini kohl to give the appearance of thick, sooty lashes, and a touch of carmine to her lips was all that was required. For her dinner dress, Hadiza dressed in an elegant velvet gown of what she’d heard Remy call “virgin white.” It slipped through her fingers like silk, and let her body’s shape speak for itself. Admittedly, she had become rather diminished during her travels, but it was nothing a cinched belt and sash could not fix, which Remy had provided for just such a purpose.

Her hand went for her diadem and paused. She would not give him such a show just yet! Instead, she reached for the circlet of gold, wrought into the shape of autumn leaves, with rubies giving the appearance of berries. She clasped a choker of the same make around her throat, a ruby drop nestled at the hollow betwixt her collarbones. The gown she wore slipped just enough off her shoulders to be daring, but she remembered Remy’s words again: where they glitter, you shall demure.

So Hadiza demured, much as it chafed her pride to do so, reaching for the overdress the color of aubergine, with slashed sleeves.

When she emerged from her room, she found Cullen in the hall, fussing with his collar.

“Maker take it all…” He muttered, tugging at it. Hadiza smiled.

“A bit of trouble there, Commander?” She asked and Cullen startled, seemingly unsure what to do with his hands. Hadiza walked toward him, holding up her hands.

“Do you mind…?” She asked him and Cullen hesitated, and visibly swallowed, wincing as the high collar choked him slightly. He nodded. Hadiza reached forward, deft and calm. Almost immediately afterward, Cullen sighed with relief.

“Thank you.” He said. “I’ll never understand why they insist on making these so tight.”

Hadiza laughed. “Perhaps you should ask Remy when you see him. Shall we?” She gestured down the hall toward the stairs. Cullen offered his arm, and Hadiza could not help but be proud that he’d at least retained the etiquette lessons he’d learned. She took his proffered arm, and together they made their way toward the dining hall. Hadiza was surprised to find Etienne waiting for her at the top of the staircase.

“My apologies, Commander,” Etienne said from behind his mask, garbed in midnight blue and silver embroidery, “but I hope you do not mind. I had hoped to have the honor of escorting Lady Trevelyan to dinner this evening.”

Cullen’s cheeks went rosy with embarrassment and partial annoyance.

“Not at all, my lord Comte.” He said stonily, “‘Twould not do to deprive you of the Inquisitor’s attentions.”

Hadiza did not miss the jab and shot a dark look to Cullen briefly before he released her arm, executing a stiff and low bow.

“I shall see the two of you at dinner.” He said and descended the steps. Hadiza watched him go, her brows slightly knit before smoothing away her expression and smiling.

“Shall we?” Etienne asked her, and Hadiza looped her arm with his, and she immediately knew why he wished to escort her.

From the perspective of her companions, Hadiza knew that she and the chevalier cut a fine figure. She looked every part the princess, and he the gallant knight. This was the image the Inquisition had capitalized on before when she was seen on the arm of Commander Cullen a year prior. This time, it was different.

“You look very lovely this evening, Lady Inquisitor,” Etienne said as they made their slow descent down the stairs. Hadiza was careful to match her step to his, holding her skirts slightly aloft, revealing the jeweled, heeled slippers that matched her jewelry. She smiled as genuinely as she could, trying hard to dissect the compliment as Vivienne taught her.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, “you’re quite dashing yourself.”

Etienne said nothing as they reached the landing and he escorted her to the dining hall. The companions of course were already seated, and Hadiza’s place was at the right hand of Etienne, who sat at the head of the table. It was clear from the way the servants moved with an almost agitated grace that the dining room was seldom used. Etienne was sociable when he had need of it, but Hadiza knew enough to know that the chevalier life called all the stronger than the courtly life did. He was a warrior first and a gentleman second, though to a chevalier those things were not mutually exclusive.

Hadiza wondered, with a pang of sympathy, if he dined alone often.

After they were seated, the meal was served. If Hadiza liked little of Orlais, she could say that its light and savory cuisine was something she could put in the country’s favor. The Nevarran wine was a somewhat dry white, and as the platters of food were uncovered, she saw why. They were served a dish of tender salmon, stewed in a sweet currant sauce. They ate, and as the wine flowed, the conversation turned more amiable.

“My lord Comte,” Josephine began, “we must thank you again for the honor of Visage du Soleil’s patronage. The Inquisitor was delighted when she heard the reason for your invite.”

Hadiza hid her smile in her glass of wine. In truth, she _was_ excited about the prospect of seeing her deeds immortalized on the stage of the most prestigious guild of performers in the world. Still, the added barbs and conditions made her squirm. Yet, the possibilities it could yield were not so bad.

It was certainly easier than being in love with the most hated human in Thedas.

“Truly,” Hadiza said, picking up on the thread Josephine loaned her, “I’d heard a great deal of Visage du Soleil but I confess I’ve not had the time to see them in person.”

Etienne smiled. “A mistake we must rectify as soon as possible, my lady,” he said, “I have actually arranged for you to meet them prior to the premier.”

Hadiza did not miss the subtle gasp from Josephine nor the slight shift in posture from Vivienne. She knew, without having to ask, that to meet with the guild prior to their premier was something of note.

“Truly?” Hadiza asked excitedly, not all of it feigned. “Maker, you are a marvel, my lord Comte! And here I have brought nothing sufficient with which to express my gratitude.”

Etienne’s smile was so saccharine that Hadiza was sure his intent was deeper than mere appearances.

“Oh, I am sure you will find some way to thank me, Your Worship. For now, this is my gift to you and your companions. It would not do for your only impression of Orlais to be inane civil war and squabbling nobility.”

 _And the neverending sulfur-choked abyss that is the Western Approach and the graveyard that is the Hissing Wastes._ Hadiza thought dryly.

“I felt it would have behooved us to show you why Orlais is truly the jewel of Southern Thedas,” he said, “and one of the ways to do so was to show you our art. I am sure when you meet the players of _La miséricorde de l'Inquisition_ , you will not be disappointed. The premiere is still weeks away, and I wanted you all to avail yourselves to the pleasures of Orlais until then.”

Hadiza smiled, murmuring her thanks.

Later, after dessert, the companions were allowed to avail themselves to the chateau’s vast grounds, while Etienne requested a moment of Hadiza’s time.

They walked, arm in arm, through the garden. Hadiza stole a glance upward, seeing that someone had closed her balcony door. Then, her attention focused on Etienne. She barely had time to collect herself when he stopped suddenly, and grasped her arm a little tighter to steady her.

“Inquisitor,” he said, “I had wanted to dispense with the decorum, but you know this is Orlais.”

Hadiza raised her brows. “Indeed.” Was all she gave him.

Etienne sighed. “I trust you have been well-informed as to why I’m doing this, yes?”

Hadiza tilted her head, her smile soft at the edges, her expression curious.

“Is there aught I should know about this visit, my lord? Is everything alright?” She asked, and her compassion was unfeigned. She could see his eyelids flicker behind his mask’s eyelets. It was not everyday an Orlesian met someone who was genuine.

“It has come to my attention that I must find a wife,” Etienne said, “in order to secure my estate and holdings and title and pass it on to my heirs.”

Hadiza’s eyes went wide.

“This is all so sudden, my lord!” She laughed. “I would normally encourage one to buy me a drink first but we have only just dined…”

Etienne sighed, exasperated.

“This is not a game, Inquisitor!” He hissed. Hadiza laughed.

“Isn’t it always, my lord?” She asked and Etienne’s mouth opened and then shut. Hadiza fixed him with an arch look and she saw his shoulders slump a little.

“Sod the bloody Game,” he muttered, “I suppose since you are not Orlesian there is no need to dissemble with you. Still, the Empress has expressed concern given my age and the risks I took during the war as well as in fighting in the Arbor Wilds.”

Hadiza sobered at the recollection of that battle. It was not one anyone would soon forget who had been there. The streams had run red with blood and lyrium, and somewhere in that temple was a memory of magic so profound it defied words to describe its like.

“Thank you for your service, both to Orlais and the Inquisition.” She said automatically and Etienne hesitated, understanding that they both recalled a memory they wished to lock away.

“She has requested in no uncertain terms that I marry,” Etienne said, “and produce heirs. The problem is, your Commander has become a trend in court and blonds are the current flavor of the season. I’ll not have much luck wooing some young debutante so long as the trend lasts.”

Hadiza laughed. “So you what? You wish to upstage your peers by wooing the Inquisitor?”

Etienne smiled thinly. “In a sense,” he said, “I shall woo you in the public eye, and I would appreciate if you’d pretend to enjoy it. The rumors out of Skyhold about your current paramour are...unsettling.”

Hadiza’s face turned stony, her eyes cold. “And there is a great deal of business here in Orlais you need to mind, my lord, and you don’t see me attempting to mind it for you.”

Etienne’s smile faded. “Point taken, Inquisitor. In any case, I need only to boost my desirability by being seen with the most desirable woman in Thedas.”

Hadiza laughed. “There is no way I’m the most desirable woman in Thedas.”

 _Not when Madame de Fer walks amongst us looking like_ **_that_ ** _._ She thought. Maker! She’d give anything to walk with the same murderous confidence as Vivienne. She made a note to practice in her room, mayhap in front of a mirror.

“You give yourself too little credit, Your Worship.” He said. “But please, I’ve gone through the trouble of setting up a meeting with Visage du Soleil. I have sank my fortune into funding this production. All that I require of you is the illusion that we are embarking on a romantic relationship.”

Hadiza shook her head. “I know Orlais loves a good ruse, but since it _is_ just a ruse, what happens when I depart?”

Etienne shrugged. “By then some other young noblewoman will have thrown herself at me to oppose you. You are Rivaini, they will want to compete to prove your inferiority to them.”

Hadiza bristled then. “Have a care how you speak to me, my lord.” She said icily. Etienne shrugged.

“I merely speak truth, Inquisitor, as you have met few Orlesians who do, no doubt.”

“Well,” Hadiza said drily, “I suppose I should expect some semblance of honesty from a chevalier. Still, I dislike this ruse, my lord. Would it not be enough to simply be seen with me at the ballet’s premiere?”

Etienne shook his head. “Would that it were so simple. No, my lady, we must play the part of burgeoning lovers. We must make it convincing. And truly, am I so repugnant that you cannot at least pretend?”

Hadiza laughed. “I would not know, my lord. What little I have seen of your face is pleasant, but a vast majority is hidden behind that damnable mask.”

Etienne reached up, untying the silk cord that secured his mask, and slipped it from his face. Hadiza gasped a little. She had not seen before, the scar that made his nose look like badly chopped meat, and furrowed into his cheeks beneath his eyes. Aside from that, she could see that he was handsome at one point, and ignoring the ugliness of his nose, still was.

“A Red Templar nearly took my head off with its claws,” Etienne explained, “but I fought on...blood in my eyes and my nose all but torn from my face. I have found, in these recent months, that the Orlesian tradition of masks has served me well. Women entertain the fantasy of men scarred from battle, but only if those scars enhance our appeal.”

Hadiza nodded, feeling self-conscious about her own scars.

“You lament this and yet women are expected to be as flawless and unscarred as newborn babes,” Hadiza said calmly, “I do not find you repugnant, my lord, but nor will you find me swooning and lamenting the loss of your beauty in the heat of battle. You are a warrior, and scars are expected of you. Duplicity, however, is not. If we are to be successful in this arrangement, I expect some degree of forthrightness from you in the future. Am I clear?”

Etienne bowed to her, limned in the silvery light of the moons. Hadiza looked down at him, her expression neutral, but her eyes were as pitiless and hard as one might have expected of the Inquisitor had they not known the softness of the heart within.

“If it is honesty you wish, my lady, then let us henceforth be open about our dealings with one another. I shall endeavor to endear myself to you from now on, Your Worship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done. Leave one if you with me. ✌


	5. Chapter 5

There was a hushed quality of the morning that poets spoke of often. It was a time in which the world quietly drew breath, heaving in great and slow sighs. Dew clung to the heavy veined flesh of the roses, and birds twittered in the fountain, eager for a meal. Sunlight turned the muted gray dawn into soft gold, spilling through every window. Servants--risen long before the morning bled into the sky--moved about the chateau with quiet efficiency, depositing wood into cold fireplaces to beat back the chilly ghost the night left, and preparing the morning meal.

One silver eye opened to find the sun spilling into the room, and with a groan, Hadiza rolled over in her bed, and put a pillow over her head in annoyance. It would avail her nothing, as the damage had been done: dawn was here, and Hadiza had no choice but to rise and meet it.

For a long while, she lay there, reasoning with herself that the plush comfort of the bed was far more appealing than braving the cold marble of the bathing chamber. Still, she reached across, disappointed at how cold and empty the rest of the bed was. The plush comfort of the bed may have been appealing, but she had been spoiled by her title and had grown accustomed to waking up to the warmth and comfort of another within reach. It was starkly isolating to be suddenly bereft of the familiarity of her usual rituals of the morning, and served to sober her and remind her where she was and why she was there.

That alone was enough to galvanize her into leaving the bed, finding it foreign and unwelcoming. She slid from beneath the duvet and sheets, and lethargically onto the floor, struggling and swaying on her feet. She shuffled into her slippers, and then trudged into the bathing chamber. By the time she splashed water on her face from the ornate bowl seated on a plinth, she was wide awake and far more alert. Alert enough, in fact, that when she reemerged into her bedchamber, she heard arguing outside of her room, muffled and hushed. She smiled, discerning Dorian’s voice, and drew herself up calmly as a knock sounded on her door.

She opened it to find Dorian looking as fresh-faced and alert as always. Hadiza could not fathom it; between him and Vivienne, there was precious little to dissuade her of the belief that they were somehow immortal. Still, Dorian had liberated what looked to be her breakfast cart. Hadiza looked beyond him to find an elven servant trapped in a kneel. Frowning, Hadiza gave Dorian a reproachful look.

“It’s rare to see you up this early unless the world is literally burning.” Dorian greeted. “You look marvelous, not as marvelous as me, but good effort.”

Hadiza rolled her eyes, grabbed the handle of her breakfast cart and dragged it inside her room, bringing Dorian with her.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this early?” She asked, lifting the cover of the silver tray to find a wealth of fresh fruit, bread, and cheeses, as well as a scalding kettle of Nevarran tea, a small cup of milk, and a saucer laden with sugar cubes. On such small luxuries was Hadiza’s reminder of the trappings of power and influence her host possessed. Sugar was a precious commodity, made only in the hot, tropical lands of Rivain. It cost a fortune to make, and Hadiza had seen in the Skyhold kitchens, the cooks pounded the hard cones of sugar into the fine crystals she enjoyed in her tea and coffee.

“I am here to see if you’ve tired of Orlesian nonsense already.” Dorian said cheerfully, and then, with a flourish, produced a book. “And I believe you’ll find this interesting reading.”

Hadiza stirred at the sight of the book, a slim volume made of what appeared to be dragonling leather. She took it, glancing at the spine and hoping to find a title.

“It’s a brief but rare history on the astrariums,” Dorian explained, “I know how much you love those things.”

“There’s still a few marked on the maps we’ve yet to solve.” Hadiza murmured absently. “Mayhap this will help. Thank you, Dorian. Truly.”

“Don’t mention it.” Dorian said dismissively. “I’m serious: don’t. Vivienne already disapproves of you tampering with such magic when such little information exists about them. She’d have my head if she knew I was encouraging you.”

Hadiza smiled, tearing off a piece of bread and loading it with cheese.

“It’s a good thing, then. I doubt she’ll see it as a problem, though. Not when...well.”

They shared a smile, remembering. Dorian sighed.

“Well, on that she and I are agreed. There’s no accounting for tastes, but you’ve always done exactly what you wanted, Hadiza. Just return the book when you’ve finished. It’s from my personal collection in Minrathous.”

Hadiza set the book on the bedside table.

“I should like to see Minrathous one day.” She said. Dorian raised his brows.

“Perhaps you will, then. You might want to hurry. Vivienne wants to be sure you’re properly attired. Apparently you’re going riding with the Comte today! What fun!”

Hadiza groaned and looked up at the frescoed ceiling in dismay.

Later, once she’d eaten and bathed, she dressed in the fine riding clothes La Fienne had tailored for her. In keeping with her theme of ‘night goddess’ he’d set for her a year ago, he’d tailored a velveteen coat dyed a blue so deep it rivaled the ocean. The coat was accented with gold brocade, and midsized epaulettes with gold tasseling. She wore this over a silk blouse of icy white with a ruffled cravat. The golden pin at her throat bore the Inquisition’s insignia, the omnipresent eye inlaid with a faceted ruby. Her riding breeches were high waisted, accented with a sash made of king’s weave silk, emphasizing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, and her height.

Smiling wryly, Hadiza saw within the crackling wax paper that La Fienne left a note that she was to wear the riding boots that went over the knees and not the one that stopped below.

 _To better emphasize the length of your legs._ The note explained. They were soft, and Hadiza knew La Fienne had had some poor soul working night and day to massage oil into the leather. They were glossy, giving back a dark reflection along their length. She pulled them on, wiggling her toes to test for the fit. As always, Remy had her measurements down to a science.

Hadiza styled her hair as she always did: a single thick braid that fell just past mid-back, secured with a gold clasp at the end, inlaid with lyrium crystals. She glanced down at the table where the mask lay. It was a simple half-mask of white; it appeared to be porcelain at first glance, but then she saw the thin, almost unnoticeable blue veins within. She felt the thrum of power and knew the reasoning behind this mask.

 _You can play the Game, darling,_ she remembered Vivienne’s voice saying, _but never let them forget who and what you are. You must also rise above._

The mask was a symbol of her power. Hadiza slipped it on in the mirror, securing it at the back with the black ribbons and gold pins. It fit securely, and through the artfully slanted eyeholes, Hadiza saw her own shrewd gaze staring back at her. Thus prepared, she set out to meet Etienne at the stables.

* * *

For all that Samson exercised patience, he had grown complacent, forgetting that he could and would be antagonized at every turn. Ariadne had opted to stay behind, wanting no conflicts of interest to arise with her appearance, and surprisingly...she was the oasis in the desert of Skyhold’s vaguely threatening atmosphere. Without the shroud of the Inquisitor to protect him, Samson realized just how much of the pleasantries he thought he’d earned had been mere show for Hadiza’s sake. He was, as always, a pariah. Strangely, where he had once been content with this--where he had once _accepted_ this as his fated role to play--he no longer felt the calm that came with solitude. And where none would have him, Samson had little choice.

He went to the Chantry.

It was strange, but Hadiza had this Chantry built with no walls. Instead, she’d placed it in the garden, that all may come and worship as she believed the Maker intended. The only thing about it that was indoors was the effigy of Andraste herself, located in a small alcove. It basked in the light of the western sunset, and Samson avoided it as if it were cursed. Instead, he sat on one of the benches where the faithful gathered to hear sermons.

That was how Mother Giselle found him.

“Maker’s shitting breath…” He muttered when he saw her, then added, “My apologies…”

Mother Giselle smiled. “It is not for me to judge you for your choice of words, Samson.” She said. Samson stared at her a moment, then grumbled some more, gesturing to the spot beside him on the bench. Mother Giselle sat primly, folding her hands in her lap.

“Might as well get it out of the way, Mother,” Samson groused, “no point in idling about.”

Mother Giselle raised her brows. “And what are we getting out of the way, Samson?” She asked. “Was there something you wanted to discuss, perhaps?”

Samson’s lips twisted between a sneer and a frown.

“Fine.” He said, “Then we’ll sit and enjoy the quiet, then.”

For a time, it was so. The sun sank behind the mountains, flooding Skyhold’s Chantry garden with soft, reddish-gold light. The chill in the air set in, and the wind bit a little harder as the sun fled. Mother Giselle rubbed her hands together, and Samson could see beneath her robes she was shivering from the cold. Strangely, the cold bothered him not at all. He remembered briefly, from his feverish state, that Dagna said something about his body being unnaturally warm from red lyrium consumption, but put it out of his mind soon after. He glanced at Mother Giselle again, who sat patiently, shivering beneath her robes.

“Alright, Mother, give it up,” he said after a while, “you’ll catch your death out here.”

Mother Giselle stared at him. “I would keep you company, Ser Samson. Even you do not deserve to be alone at a time like this.”

Samson snorted. “So you say. Still...best you go inside before I get blamed for you being sick or worse.”

Mother Giselle smiled, and Samson felt his heart crack a little. The Chantry had practically raised him, and he had been weaned on its dogma from an early age. But he spun in a sea of doubt, his rudder shattered, his sails in tatters, and no safe harbor in sight. The wounds were still to raw for him to return to his roots.

That smile was too damning for him, right now.

They walked, although Samson walked slower. Mother Giselle was a short woman, and he had to be mindful not to stride ahead of her like some great oaf. Still, the walk out of the gardens and back into Skyhold was pleasant. The keep was already warm, kept so by perpetually burning braziers and torches, and Samson breathed a sigh of relief when they finally made it inside. Giselle turned to him.

“Are you afraid of her, Samson?” She asked suddenly, bringing him up short.

“Afraid of who?” He demanded, his pride already making him bristle in defense. Giselle held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. Samson frowned.

“Hadiza’s given me no cause to fear her of late,” he said crossly, “not that it’s any of your business to go prying into a man’s private life.”

“I was not speaking of Her Worship.”

Samson felt his skin grow cold and clammy in response. He did not have to ask to know of whom Giselle spoke. The name was heavy in his throat. If he swallowed it, he would vomit, if he spoke it, he feared summoning...what? Her spectre? The Maker? What did he have to fear from a woman a thousand years dead, and her ashes spirited off to Maker knew where?

“You see her and avert your gaze,” Mother Giselle said, “and when you pass her, you do so quickly, as if to avoid something malevolent. What cause have you to fear of the Maker’s Bride?”

Samson wished he hadn’t invited the old bat to sit down, and knew if he fled it would be as certain as an admission of guilt. Instead, he hardened his heart against her, and steeled his will. It must have worked for Mother Giselle lifted her chin a fraction, in defiance of the Red General, before she ceded to him.

“You do not have to confess it to me, but you must speak to someone of this fear. Fear consumes as much as love.”

Samson snorted. “What would you know of love? You swore your vows long before I took my own. Last I checked you Mothers weren’t allowed to know anything of the sort.”

“And you are a fool to think carnal love is the only love there is.” Mother Giselle said sharply.

Samson rolled his eyes. “Ah yes. The love of the Maker for all His misbegotten children, am I right? The divine and unconditional love of an absentee father figure who left his most faithful children to fall to ruin and madness.”

He couldn’t stop himself once he spoke, and soon his confession came in a torrent.

“I served her and her divine husband for over half my life,” Samson ground out, “served them with compassion and faith as I was taught. And what do I have to show for it? _Nothing_.”

Mother Giselle said nothing, and neither refuted nor affirmed his confession. Samson looked away, knifing his fingers through his thinning hair.

“But you have something, do you not?” Mother Giselle offered kindly. “Something you never expected?”

Hadiza.

Samson felt his heart constrict at the thought. He had her, but for how long? She would tire of him eventually, see him as little more than a lure of the forbidden--a temporary infatuation. And yet, when they were together he felt no such doubt. His heart soared at the sight of her, and he smiled more often than he had in ten years when she laughed. And Maker, when they made love, he swore they could shake the Deep Roads with that level of ecstasy. But there were other things, too. The small pleasure he took when she entrusted him to keep her garden watered and tended in her absence, the way his lungs no longer burned when he ascended the steps of the keep...that he still drew breath at all. Still, it did not seem to be enough to convince him that twenty years and more of devout service would yield only these small and tender mercies as a reward.

_Where is my glory? Where will my name be written in history?_

Samson did not need the answers to those questions; he’d poisoned that well himself.

“I’m a dead man walking, Mother,” Samson said quietly, “best you make your peace with that.”

Mother Giselle’s brows furrowed, her soft eyes warm with sorrow. She reached out, took his hand and covered it with her own.

“Do not give up hope, Samson.” She said, “You have been given a rare opportunity. Whether it is the Maker, Andraste, or merely happenstance, no one can say...but do not squander it dwelling on the past. Your past is set. Your future is not. Would you rather not shape it yourself instead of letting the world do it for you?”

Samson did not want to admit that her words gave him some comfort. How could they not? Chantry Mothers were notoriously good at offering comfort to those they deemed worth the effort. But so too had Samson seen the other side of the Chantry, the kind that closed its doors in the face of suffering templars it no longer had a use for; the kind that rewarded tyranny and oppression and punished compassion and empathy. He was endlessly divided between which version was the truest. He had known kind Chantry Mothers, and he had known cruel and indifferent Chantry Mothers. He had known kindness and cruelty in virtually everyone he’d met. But Mother Giselle and Hadiza stood apart in that neither one of them seemed to have the capacity for cruelty, not intentionally in any case. The former would not so much as harm an insect, and the latter raised her fist only in defense of herself and her people.

It unnerved him somewhat, and did nothing to explain away the reality of his situation: he feared the Maker and Andraste. He feared the Maker awaited him in the afterlife, feared he would be judged and found wanting. Samson knew that he needed no divine presence to ascertain what he--in his heart of hearts--already knew: his heart had blackened in service to Corypheus, and the blood on his hands would never wash away. He may not have actively killed innocents, but he ordered their deaths all the same. And he had, in some part of himself, taken cruel pleasure in enacting vengeance against the Maker’s so-called children.

He felt sick, and Mother Giselle’s concern bloomed between them.

“Are you alright?” She asked and Samson shook his head.

“I’ve got to get back to my cell.” He said, “Make sure you keep warm.”

He hurried away, wiping the sweat from his forehead, licking his lips. Lyrium. He needed lyrium. His heart raced, his temples pounded, and his blood beat with a cadence that made his teeth ache. He fidgeted incessantly with his clothing all the way to his room, wanting only to crawl out of his own skin to escape the feeling--the _thirst_.

Ariadne was waiting for him, a living shadow; a deeper darkness against the natural darkness in his cell. His guard had been dismissed, and Samson wagered the man had gladly hurried off to the tavern as there were few people in Skyhold who wanted to ever cross Leliana’s protege. Samson came up short, agitated but wary. Ariadne dipped her head in greeting, but she looked at him the same way a varghest looked at prey over the drinking pool. Her expression was caught between amusement and disinterest, and Samson would not break his mind attempting to figure out upon which end he fell.

“What is it?” He demanded of her and Ariadne did not answer for a time. Instead, she stepped out of the shadows into the light, and yet there was something off about her appearance that made Samson think she was an apparition. She shimmered in and out of view almost, a shadow within a shadow.

“You want to go to Orlais.” She said quietly. “To be with her while the Comte de Piedmont makes attempts to woo her, do you not?”

Samson narrowed his eyes.

“No use in feigning nonchalance with me, _Raleigh_ ,” Ariadne said his name as if it were an amusing vulgarity, and Samson had never hated his name so much in his life, “you’ve paced these halls like a caged lion eager to sink its teeth into something--or someone, rather.”

“And why is any of this of interest to you?” Samson sneered. “Nobody needs killing?”

He sucked in a breath when Ariadne suddenly produced a small vial of glowing blue liquid between her slender fingers.

“On the contrary,” she said, “there is always someone that needs to die, though not necessarily by my hand. I have been tracking the Inquisitor’s progress and my scouts have reported some very interesting things regarding the Visage du Soleil and Comte de Piedmont’s arrangement.”

Samson hated himself in that moment. The very sight of lyrium was enough to calm him somewhat. He crossed his arms, kept his gaze on Ariadne.

“Let me guess: the Comte’s intentions are far from noble.” He muttered. Ariadne made the tiny vial dance across her knuckles like a coin. Samson calculated that it was hardly more than a mere swallow. Enough to take the edge off, but no more than that. It would be enough. The Inquisition’s lyrium was pure and potent, maybe even more so than the Chantry’s supply had been.

“Not only that,” Ariadne said, “but it is my guess that he--or someone with access--intends to take Hadiza’s life the night of the premier. It’s...trite, but I suppose I should not expect much imagination from Orlais these days.”

“Wait,” Samson said, “you mean he’s going to have her assassinated?”

Ariadne shrugged. “Mayhap. It has not yet been made clear where exactly the order is coming from, nor has it been made clear if the Comte is fully complicit or Visage du Soleil.”

Samson scoffed. “It’s just a bloody dance show; a really fancy one, but a dance show nonetheless. What the fuck has that got to do with Hadiza or assassinations?”

Ariadne did not smile, then. “They recruit only the most elite of performing artists, yes, but make no mistake: every single member of Visage du Soleil, from the soloists to the makeup artists are trained bards.”

“Duly noted. Can’t say I’m surprised.” Samson said wryly. “Then again, everyone in Orlais seems to be more than what they appear to be. It’s no small wonder why you thrive in that place.”

Ariadne’s steely gaze flashed dangerously, and it was warning enough that Samson need not pry further into that cold grave.

“In any case, I cannot compromise my identity while in Orlais, else I’d ride there and make an end of this myself.” She said, “And so I need someone who can get there and...disrupt things on my behalf.”

“And I’m the one you turn to?” Samson laughed derisively. “You’ve got better trained agents for that, Ghost.”

“Yes,” Ariadne said, “but imagine the stories they will tell when the Red General sweeps in to save his former enemy from certain death.”

Samson admitted, as silly as it sounded, the idea had merit. He chuckled.

“And what do you get out of this?” He asked her. Ariadne said nothing; not so much as a droll shrug of her shoulders. It was neither an answer nor a refutation. Samson sighed knowing he would have to accept that and expect naught else.

“Look at you,” He teased, giving her a feral grin, “going noble for your sister.”

Ariadne did not smile. “How soon can you be ready to ride?”

Samson held up his hands. “You forget that I’m banned from Orlais, Ghost. They’ll have my head as soon as I’m spotted. How do you expect me to get to this fancy celebration unnoticed? I’m not exactly a bloody chevalier or what have you.”

Ariadne _did_ smile, then, and that made his blood run cold no matter the nature of it. She had something very draconic about her, as if that satin brown skin would reveal scales and spines any moment, and her tongue would split in two.

“Chevalier? Hardly. But I can make you into someone worthy of warranting an invitation. Lady Montilyet was kind enough to procure one at my request.”

Samson swallowed. “What? You don’t mean to say I’m going to some fancy party to stop an assassination attempt?”

“Ballet, Samson. Come with me to the rookery. We’ve much work to do ere you set out.”

* * *

Hadiza was glad that Josephine dissuaded her from bringing Argo on the journey, for all that she loved the dracolisk. But now, she imagined how she must have looked, seated in her finest riding attire, atop a Friesian freshly combed and brushed, her saddle supple and polished like the rest of her. She knew she looked like a painting of some noble, and Nyx was of Trevelyan stock, so she knew his gait and carriage were as fine as any of the chargers the chevaliers used. Even if it were all a farce for the Imperial Court, Hadiza would make sure Etienne felt some degree of reality in his empty courtship.

Thus, when they rode the length and breadth of his grounds, Hadiza was acutely aware of his eyes on her. She had learned to sit a proper saddle practically before she could walk, and it was often said in Ostwick that Trevelyans were practically born in the seat. She rode with lissome grace, and even Nyx seemed aware of what she was about, prancing and preening like a prized yearling, his mane flowing like rivers of ink, eyes bright. Hadiza smiled, trying not to look too smug.

“You are enjoying this,” Etienne said later, as they dismounted, opting to walk through the wooded areas of his estate, along the winding paths carefully curated for optimal beauty. “I daresay you like to be courted, Inquisitor.”

Hadiza laughed, eyes glittering behind her mask, but she did not answer.

Etienne’s lips twisted in a frown.

“It is my hope, Inquisitor, that you will join me at the Summer Bazaar later this afternoon. There is a cafe that serves the best macarons in Orlais, I think. I have heard tell you are fond of sweets.”

Hadiza smiled blandly. She loved macarons. In truth, she would have told him they could head to the city right away, but she knew what he wanted: to be seen gifting her with things she liked. While receiving gifts always pleased her, it was somewhat discomfiting that she should be seen with this man who felt nothing for her. She wondered often how other noblewomen simply tolerated being courted for status but not love.

She thought about Samson, imagined what he’d say; something crude and unnervingly hilarious, no doubt.

Her smile turned fond, and she nodded.

“Of course, my lord,” she said cheerily, “I suppose it’s no secret that I love sweets. I have only had macarons once before. Lady Montilyet tells me they are something of an artform and notoriously difficult to make.”

“I would not know,” Etienne said, “I am not a cook. If you must know, mayhap you can ask them.”

Hadiza did not miss the subtle bite in his words. A chevalier and a soldier he had been, but beneath the varnish was all the Orlesian snobbery and arrogance Hadiza hated about Orlais. She heaved a quiet sigh of disappointment. This farce would be harder to sell if she disliked him.

The ride back to his chateau was quiet, for the most part, and Hadiza was glad for it. Etienne was an older man, not one given over to rash decisions or foolishness, but Hadiza wanted to try anyway.

“How fast is your charger, my lord?” She asked innocently, stroking her thumb along the pommel of her saddle. Etienne glanced at her sidelong.

“What are you insinuating, Your Worship?” He shot back, a volley over the port bow. Hadiza smirked.

“It’s just...you have retired from the warrior’s life, no? And doubtless your horse has seen enough battle that mayhap he is too old to--”

“He is vigorous enough yet, Inquisitor. Care to place a wager?”

Hadiza wanted to laugh. Varric would have.

“Ten gold, a full head ahead at the stables.” Etienne challenged. Hadiza did laugh then.

“Very well, my lord. My apologies in advance.”

They readied their horses. The chateau was straight ahead, the stables just behind it. When they took off, Hadiza felt Nyx shoot forward beneath her with an excitement few steeds could match in her own stables. Etienne’s white charger was no slouch, either, moving like a flag along the beaten path. Nyx, like some shadow, was close behind and pulling up alongside his rival. Hadiza loosened the reins, giving Nyx his full head and slowly, she made her way past Etienne, but not before she saw him dig his heels in and loosen his own reins.

The charger sped down the path with renewed vigor, and Hadiza rode hell-for-leather after him. They thundered onto the grounds, passing the stables before reining their mounts in for a fierce halt. Nyx reared once, neighing in agitation, prancing to and fro before Hadiza calmed him down. His breathing came in hard snorts, and she patted his neck in silent thanks, murmuring words of reassurance and gratitude. Etienne did no such thing with his own horse, opting instead to still his mount and then swing out of the saddle gracefully. Hadiza took her coin purse and withdrew several gold coins, dropping them into his waiting hand.

“I stand corrected, my lord,” she said breathlessly, her eyes still bright from the exciting run, “your charger has some spirit in him yet.”

“And let this day always serve as a reminder to you of that.” Etienne said and smiled, pocketing his winnings and offering his hand to help Hadiza out of the saddle. They stood, willing themselves to calm.

“There is nothing like it, is there?” Etienne asked and Hadiza blinked, a question in her eyes. Etienne had not let go of her hands just yet.

“Riding full tilt,” he said, “there is nothing in Thedas quite like riding a horse and letting it go top speed. There is something invigorating about having all that power and grace at one’s command.”

Hadiza felt a flush creep into her ears.

“Yes.” She agreed. “It’s exciting. Mayhap next time it shall be me pocketing your coin and inspiring me to my own reflection about the nature and power of beasts.”

Etienne looked down at her, his gaze shrewd.

“I’ll not keep you.” He murmured, his thumb stroking her hand idly. Hadiza hated that it was not an unpleasant thing. “Let us prepare, I shall send a messenger ahead. I want you to have the macarons when they are fresh.”

Hadiza smiled, and there was no malice in it. “Thank you, my lord. I shall see you anon.”

He let go of her hands, and as a stable hand took their mounts, Hadiza went back into the chateau. This time, she was aware of his gaze upon her as she walked away, and aware that the balance of power in this farce had once more shifted away from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My updates may slow in the next few weeks as I struggle to write and edit more chapters. I can honestly say for the three or four people reading this that the plot is outlined, themes are set, and it's looking like the word count may come close to _Maledictus_ so...I will languish in DA hell indefinitely, it looks like. Thanks for sticking with me, though. Leave one if you with me. ✌


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I write about love and try to introduce a plot.

Etienne had promised Hadiza a visit to Visage du Soleil, but setting a date proved far more difficult than originally thought. It was many days of correspondence before the guild agreed on a suitable meeting time, and during that time, Vivienne and Josephine took to Hadiza’s wardrobe with fine-toothed combs to pick out the perfect ensemble. Hadiza sat on her bed as the two women chattered amongst themselves. She discerned their differing tastes with wry amusement, noting Vivienne opted for bold and imposing styles, preferably to play up Hadiza’s position and status. Josephine favored more subtle displays of the Inquisition’s authority. In the end, Hadiza decided she would garb herself as her mood dictated, a fact that put both of her companions on edge.

“This.” Hadiza said, tapping the lace bodice of a forest-green gown of darkened samite and gold embroidery along the edges of the wide sleeves. Rubies, faceted and blood-dark, were sewn onto the hem and along the bodice, which was cut surprisingly low. In a velvet-lined leather box, La Fienne had coupled the gown with appropriate jewelry. A diadem of gold, with a line of rubies along its gleaming apex, with vines and flowers beveled into the metal; a pair of gold earrings, large and detailed, gleaming with rubies; a necklace that was more collar than anything, wrought in an intricate design of vines and flowers, with a ruby pendant nestled just above the swell of her breasts. Hadiza noted with smug pride that the corporeal cues of Samson’s affections had faded from her skin. The gown would do. Her mask was gilded in gold, undecorated, drawing the eyes to the accessories and details of her gown. She surveyed herself in the mirror, and noted Vivienne’s nod of approval in the reflection. Even Josephine looked satisfied with the choice.

 _Good_ . Hadiza thought firmly. _If I am to play this ridiculous Game, I need them to know I can be trusted to make my own decisions when I do._

Thus did Hadiza attire herself and descend to meet Etienne in the vestibule. She was pleased when he saw her, and knew she had chosen rightly in her wardrobe. He wore a doublet of russet, with gold vines embroidered on the breast, and darkened samite trouser with heeled boots of suede. Hadiza took his gloved hand, and she saw him inspect the jeweled ring on her finger.

“A gift from a suitor, my lady?” He ventured, lifting her hand to brush her knuckles with his lips. Hadiza steeled her will, and remembered he was Orlesian and by his very status a duplicitous man.

“A dear friend.” Hadiza replied. “You know her, actually. Madame de Fer.”

Etienne sobered somewhat, and said nothing in response, instead leading her outside to where the carriage waited. It was simple, but bore the Piedmont coat of arms on both doors. Inside, it was plushly appointed, with soft cushions of oxblood velvet, and the Piedmont coat of arms stitched into the headrests. Hadiza sat primly, as she’d seen Vivienne often do, and folded her hands in her lap, stoic and unmoved. Etienne sat across from her.

She heard the driver climb into the seat outside, and with a single word, the coach pulled out, trundling down the winding path toward the main road.

For a while, they rode in silence, and Hadiza watched the idyllic hills and woods of the chateau’s grounds pass by as if in a lazy dream. She turned her thoughts inward, thankful, for once, for the mask that hid her expressions from the Comte. Her thoughts turned to Skyhold, hoping that Ariadne could hold it while she was away, and hoping that the unspoken protection she’d placed on the prisoners in her care would hold.

Samson.

“You do not like me over much, do you?” Etienne asked, and Hadiza turned her gaze to him, slow and methodical. His tone was unreadable; but there was something subdued about it, and Hadiza could not figure out why. When in doubt, she erred on the side of caution.

“Whatever gave you that idea, my lord?” She asked airily. “You have been a gracious host and the quintessential gentleman. You’ve given me no real cause to dislike you.”

Etienne stared at her from behind his gilded mask, and the shadows obscured his eyes.

“So you say,” he said at last, “but all of Orlais is well-aware of how you truly feel about the Game and our culture, Inquisitor.”

Hadiza did not move, did not speak, though she longed to rub her temples as her blood beat in her ears.

“And how do I feel about the Game and your culture, exactly?” She ventured with a wry smile. “It is not everyday I am told exactly what is on my mind by someone other than myself.”

“Point taken.” Etienne said mildly, “I would not presume to tell you of your own mind, my lady, only that your disdain for certain aspects of Orlesian culture and custom are not so easily obscured by a mask.”

“And false attempts at courtship are, my lord?” Hadiza asked, eyes glittering dangerously. Etienne shifted in his seat. It was slight, but Hadiza counted it a victory during this latest contest of wills. She was becoming more proficient. But this was merely a singular match. She did not think she had the wit and skill necessary to face down an entire group of courtiers.

“You know my situation, Inquisitor,” he said with a shrug, leaning back in his seat, “I have been uncharacteristically forthright with you regarding the matter. Consider this a trade of favors. You receive the patronage and honor of Visage du Soleil--something even the most well-connected must vie for like common rabble--and I receive the supposed affections and favor of the Herald of Andraste. My status at court is elevated, and you reign as the celebrated savior of Thedas. There is precious little to dislike about that.”

Hadiza tilted her head. “Then you know precious little of my own mind, I think, my lord, to think it is ever my goal to be fawned over and worshipped by the people I have helped save.”

“False humility does not become you.” Etienne said dismissively. “You bask in the adoration of the world as a flower in the sun, Inquisitor. I have seen it for myself at the Winter Palace. Every garment you have worn was for the sole purpose of ensuring the eyes of every courtier remained trained to you. You have been the envy and desire of many, Inquisitor, and there is no shame in admitting that in some part, you find that enjoyable.”

Hadiza lifted her chin a fraction.

“It is not shameful to be well-liked by one’s peers and associates,” she said, “but you are wrong to think I would actively seek it out where I did not earn it.”

Etienne moved, and for a moment Hadiza remembered he was a chevalier and they were alone. She was unarmed, but she had her magic. In her mind, she chose the spell that could defend her. But Etienne did not seem interested in coming toward her. He merely leaned forward. She could see his eyes through the mask, then, hard and predatory.

“No one has said you did not earn it, my lady,” he told her, “only that you enjoy it. If I told you that some of the praise you receive is disingenuous or false, would you still enjoy it?”

Hadiza hesitated. Too long, it was enough for Etienne to gain momentum.

“You would not bask so openly if you knew that some of the ones who sang your praises did so by concealing poison in their hearts.” He told her. Hadiza laughed.

“My lord Comte let us dispense with these falsehoods, I grow weary of it.” She sat up a little straighter, adjusting herself accordingly.

“You need my supposed affections, do you not?” She asked him, and without waiting for his answer, she continued, “If this is to work, as I said, I require a degree of transparency with you. Visage du Soleil is a highly coveted guild. I have done my reading, Comte, you need not speak to me as if I am some backwater farm girl on her first tour of Orlais. I want to be perfectly clear: I do not _need_ their favor, nor yours. I’ve the ear of your sovereign, as she owes me her life, and _you_ owe me your gratitude that you can sit here and speak to me thus. But! I would not mind the patronage of Visage du Soleil nor the favor of the empress’ favored courtier.”

The Comte stared at her, somewhat stupefied. Hadiza gave him a winsome smile, tilting her head coquettishly. Etienne took a deep breath and exhaled.

“It seems I have underestimated you, Inquisitor. I was led to believe you had been coached to play the Game.” He shook his head with a laugh. “Now I see that that is not the case as no one with proper coaching would tip their hand thusly and consider it a victory. Not unless they had something to prove.”

Hadiza rolled her eyes. “What makes you think I have tipped my hand? You still do not know why I accepted your invitation to begin with.”

Etienne’s gaze cut to her so sharply it gave her pause.

“If you are doing this for a lark, Inquisitor, I can assure you you’ll find me poor sport. I have survived this long without a wife. As I said, I do this at the behest of Empress Celene, naught else.” He turned his gaze toward the curtains. The hamlets and villages were closer together, now, as they approached the city proper, and the cry of seagulls heralded the arrival.

“I would beg to differ.” Hadiza muttered under her breath, then brightened. “We need not be so unpleasant with one another, my lord. I am here to help you of my own volition. Surely not all of your charm is feigned for the Game?”

Etienne glanced at her, weighing the severity of her subtle dig. Mayhap she needed more coaching in how to play the Game, but she did not lack for viciousness when it suited her. Well, the sweet little Herald of Andraste had fangs after all.

“Not all of it, no.” He said quietly, his tone conflicted. She was not Orlesian, there was no need for pretense. “But one does not survive long in the Imperial Court by being genuine, you know this.”

Hadiza’s expression softened. “Then perhaps you need time away from that,” she suggested, “something to remind you that not every flower has poison lurking within its petals, as it were.”

Etienne smiled. “You’ve a gift for expression, Your Worship.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I’ve had my fill of sniffing flowers. And I spent this last year embroiled in civil war and a war against monsters.”

Hadiza looked down at her hands, her face burning. The war against monsters had been her doing, she knew, but she had needed the help...or _the bodies_ as Leliana had callously put it.

“And you survived both.” Hadiza said looking up to meet his masked gaze from across the coach’s plush and dark interior. “The Game should be nothing compared to all of that.”

Etienne laughed again. “Perhaps to you, who has faced down dragons and ancient darkspawn and lived to tell the tale. But for some of us, the Game is all we have.”

Hadiza shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be,” she countered, “but it’s a staple of Orlesian culture, now, so I suppose there’s really no changing it. Maybe you should join the Inquisition. We could always use another sword.”

Etienne’s eyes flashed. “I am an Orlesian Chevalier, one of the exalted knights of the Empire. I’ll not join the Inquisition and be made to be some faceless grunt in your army, Inquisitor. Do not insult me.”

“My apologies,” Hadiza said, genuinely meaning it, “I meant no disrespect. I just thought...well, I’m always traveling, and you seem stifled here.” And lonely. “Why do you continue to linger here if you dislike it so much?”

Etienne did not answer her and soon the coach trundled into the city, and the riot of color and sound stole Hadiza’s attentions away. The Comte’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, even as she was focused on the city. Then, he looked away.

Within Val Royeaux, Hadiza had to own that it was blessedly easier to focus on her goals of maintaining the Comte’s ruse when there was much to enjoy. When he helped her out of the coach, she christened him with her most winsome smile, giving him a coy tilt of her head, her hand lingering in his for a span she knew most observers would call _more than friendly_. As she linked her arm in his she felt as if they were beginning some complex dance, a veritable gavotte along the promenade of the Summer Bazar. She would have paid dearly to have Varric at her back, narrating sardonically or making ill-timed quips at her expense. At least then her laughter would not be feigned...the Comte was not a humorous man.

“I promised you macarons, Inquisitor,” he said, his voice a bit too loud and Hadiza winced, “and macarons you shall have.” They stopped before a quaint an ornate bakery, the awning crowned in vines which sprouted tiny pink blossoms. Hadiza resisted the urge to reach out and brush her fingers against one. Vivienne had warned her that pawing at the carefully sculpted decor was not only gauche, but unseemly for a woman of her standing. Hadiza frowned. She had been mired in giant’s blood not a month before, and darkspawn gore not three weeks after...a blossom would not wither at her touch.

 _Vivienne knows best_. Hadiza thought drily as the Comte led her inside. Somewhere, unseen, a tiny bell tinkled prettily as the door opened and Hadiza smiled widely at the sweet and buttery aroma of baked goods. Fresh bread, pastry, cakes decorated with elaborate frosting designs.

And macarons. Hadiza could feel herself vibrating with excitement. The damned Comte had guessed aright in this regard, at least! She would want for no sweets while in his company!

Etienne glanced down at her sidelong.

“So I was right after all, then.” He said quietly. “Well, then. Let us see what Madame Dupree has to offer us, hm?”

“Yes.” Hadiza said, too quickly, licking her lips. “Yes, please.”

Etienne laughed, deep in his chest, and Hadiza focused on the pretty display of white macarons with what could only be chocolate filling. She took a deep breath. Was this where Josephine ordered hers? Hadiza had never bothered to ask, only that they were always delivered in a pale blue box with a silk ribbon. She had not bothered to see if Madame Dupree’s _Sucre de Délice_ had been the source of those many nights of gossipping over a box. She glanced around to see if she recognized the packaging.

“Your Worship!” A wide, heavyset woman with a friendly face and flushed rosy cheeks swept from behind the counter with a grace that was belied by her size. She moved through the displays toward Hadiza and her chevalier suitor. She executed a graceful curtsy and Hadiza smiled.

“You do me great honor by coming to my shop,” Madame Dupree said, her voice light and breathy, jowls quivering, “and you lord Comte de Piedmont. I would that I knew you were on your way, I might have prepared those sugared tarts you love so well, my lord.”

Etienne gave her a quick but tight smile. “No need. Today, I am at the beck and call of my lady Inquisitor. It is her sweet tooth you must cater to, not mine.”

“My lord Comte!” Madame Dupree looked up and met Hadiza’s gaze. Hadiza smiled and executed a small wave. “Your Worship, I assure you, anything you might like we will do our best to please. What do you fancy?”

“I believe my Ambassador orders macarons from this very shop, actually.” Hadiza said absently. “But I cannot be sure…”

At Madame Dupree’s obvious confusion, Etienne cut in.

“She speaks, of course, of the Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva. Lady Hadiza has recently informed me she and her Ambassador share a similar weakness and fondness for sugared delights.”

Hadiza froze her smile, saying nothing, and instead continued being awed by the sweetness and warmth of the place. The shop was cozy, and Madame Dupree made her way back to her counter where Hadiza followed. She watched as Etienne and the baker exchanged pleasantries, watched as he purchased a box, and then held it as he escorted her outside. Madame Dupree was beaming as Hadiza smiled over her shoulder before they left the store and stepped into the dazzling sunlight.

“I know I promised them fresh, but they are barely a few hours old,” Etienne said, presenting the box. Hadiza raised a brow behind her mask, lips quirking in an amused smile. Then, with care, she offered her upturned hands and let him press the box into them affectionately.

“You are very beautiful, you know.” Etienne said, and Hadiza tilted her head slightly. He sounded almost genuine enough to mean it.

“I know.” She said, “Thank you for these. Are we going to the ballet, now?”

Etienne swallowed, and his gaze lingered in hers for an unfriendly span of time. Hadiza did not look away, but finally he turned his gaze toward the bustle of the city’s wide avenues.

“Yes.” He said softly. The coach was brought round, and soon they were off. Hadiza was careful not to eat her macarons right away, knowing she had no mirror to check her teeth and lips for crumbs. Instead, she was spinning idle ice spells to keep the delectable little cookies cool.

“When we arrive,” Etienne said, “it would be prudent not to lay your role on so thick.”

Hadiza sat back in her seat, mindful of her appearance despite their promise for honesty.

“Whatever do you mean?” She asked. “Was the point not for me to be affectionate with you?”

Etienne drummed his fingertips on his booted knee in irritation.

“My lady, if you think anyone believed for an instant you were becoming smitten with me with that garish display of overacting, you are either a fool or truly ignorant of the Game.” He said coolly. Hadiza hackles raised, her temper flaring as the temperature in the coach plummeted. Etienne sat up abruptly, alarmed at the sudden crackle of magic in the air, reaching for his sword.

“Do not forget that you need me more than I need you, Comte.” Hadiza said icily. “You asked for me by name, and I came only because of the circumstances, and because you are by extension of Empress Celene, a trusted ally. Have a care how you speak to me.”

It made her a little ill to use her magic thus, but she would endure no more verbal lashings from Orlesians if she did not have to. Especially not an Orlesian essentially using her to become a more desirable mate to his peers.

“My apologies, Inquisitor.” Etienne said, no fear in his voice but far greater respect. “I did not intend to offend. But in truth, your acting was atrocious. If this ruse is to be convincing, you must...sell it.”

“Sell it?” Hadiza echoed. “How?”

Etienne sighed, more from relief that the temperature returned to normal and the magic no longer crackled than anything. He rubbed his hands together.

“How would you treat a man you loved who was trying to give you the world, Your Worship?” Etienne asked her. Hadiza drew back, at a genuine loss for words. No one had ever asked her such a question before. She thought of Samson, and by extension Cullen, of Nadia, and even Samuel--that first, ignorant love from her nascent years at the Circle. None of them had tried to give her what they could not afford to offer her. Samuel had given her her first tastes of carnal love, Cullen had given her romance, and Samson? Hadiza looked down at her hands, smiling. It was still too soon to tell, but he had nothing material to offer her.

 _He has himself_ . She chided. _And if this love is true, that is more than enough._

“Your Worship?” Etienne voice pulled her from her reverie, and she looked up at him.

“I don’t know, my lord.” She whispered. “No one has ever done that for me before.” At that, Etienne hesitated. It seemed he had misjudged her, and Hadiza’s expression was guileless, her smile almost sad with the reality that for all her experience, in the realm of romance, she was far behind her peers and colleagues. He almost pitied her if the rumors about her current paramour were true.

“I see.” He said quietly. “Mayhap I was a bit harsh to judge you, then. I suppose it’s too much to hope that you know how to act when in love, then.”

“Not at all, my lord.” Hadiza laughed. “I have been in love before. I just have never been in love with someone--”

“--of equal or more social standing.” Etienne finished. Hadiza smiled nodding. Etienne made a sound of relief and annoyance. He gaze out of the curtains of the coach before twitching them close.

“Perhaps I should do more to woo you genuinely, then.” He said. “If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”

 _He’s back at Skyhold, probably breaking his back and smelling of horse dung._ Hadiza thought sardonically. Then she smiled because love was a terrible and all-consuming thing.

“A vacation from my work would be nice.” She laughed. “Somewhere where the locals and the wildlife aren’t trying to kill me.”

Etienne laughed too. “Well, you'll find no such thing in Orlais, I'm afraid. Perhaps I should be more specific: within the boundaries of the city, then.”

Hadiza grinned. “Oh you’re not going to like this, my lord.”

Etienne leaned forward.

“Try me.”

* * *

“Again! You need to flow like water. Right now, you’re dancing like you’re skipping stones down a mountain.” Ariadne chided. She stepped away from Samson, who scowled at her. Ariadne rubbed the bridge of her nose.

“If we are to make you a worldly, charming gentleman who can move in the circles of both the Imperial Court and the seedier circles you run into in the merchant trade? You will never need to open your mouth. But the Maker seems to have given you two left feet.”

“Hey!” Samson snapped. “I never asked to go to your fucking fancy party. I’ve never claimed to be anything but what I’ve always been: a warrior. I don’t dance. And you’ll be hard-pressed to find any templar that actually does.”

“If they could teach Cullen to dance, I can teach you.” Ariadne shot back. Samson sneered at the mention of Cullen’s name.

“Oh yeah? How do you figure?”

Ariadne laughed. “A fair point. He’s the better fighter, after all.”

Samson froze, his eyes going cold. “I beg your bloody pardon?”

Ariadne was a shark on the scent of fresh blood in the water. She turned to him fully, eyes bright with excitement, her smile anything but amiable, and for a moment Samson cursed his status as a prisoner with not so much as a stone with which  to defend himself. The shark opened its mouth, seeking the flesh to rend and tear.

“You heard me.” She said and Samson snorted.

“Rutherford had more cause to learn to dance, but I’ve got an Inquisitor to protect.” He said instead, but Ariadne never moved, never took her unnervingly steady gaze away. He looked away, his cheeks blooming with hot embarrassment.

“Maker’s balls, you really are in love with her.” Ariadne said, somewhat bemused. Samson said nothing, but returned to scowling. He held out his hand.

“Again.” He said. Ariadne inclined her head in a duelist’s nod, took his hand, and stepped forward.

Later, Samson sat in his cell with newer more useful reading material. Everything Ariadne knew on Visage du Soleil were mostly oral accounts from her dealings with them on the fringes of her own network of contacts. Samson disliked the entire bloody business of the underbelly wet work Ariadne thrived and excelled in, but he had to understand what he was up against. From the lack of written records of the guild’s actually blood work, Samson knew they were far more powerful than their title and prestige belied. He flipped another page in the book Ariadne had given him. Most of his reading consisted of etiquette and Orlesian decorum. He knew how to address nobility, but there were poetic niceties in Orlais to be addressed, such as how to address a duke from one of the southern provinces during the start of the debut season versus addressing them mid-season while in residence at the Winter Palace.

It was maddening, and he prayed his ruse would not take him too deep into the territory of speaking to these stuff-shirt, brainless pieces of fluff. Still, Hadiza was allowing herself to be courted by one of them, and it made him sneer to think about it. Admittedly, she deserved someone of high birth to stand beside her. It would have been the best option. But Samson’s heart was cracked and open and he could not control the flood that came from it. He loved her, and he could admit it to himself at least; his heart was filled with her, and he focused on his task knowing that he would wade through a dozen fancy parties to keep her safe.

And so he continued to read, until the candle burned low, and his eyes burned, and then he lay in his cot and slept until morning, when Ariadne came to fetch him again via one of her runners. He washed his face quickly, rinsing his mouth with the slightly sour water before he reported to the rookery, making his way as unobtrusively as he could through the main hall.

That was how he came to be greeted by Lord Kestrel of Ferelden. He was a large man, but Samson had seen him in the Arbor Wilds. He’d led a charge of his own and was no coward, and he’d made no secret of his open disdain for Hadiza’s decision to spare Samson’s life.

“I see when Her Worship’s out of residence that just about any stray dog can wander about unchecked.” Lord Kestrel sneered, helping himself to plump sausages from the breakfast table. Samson himself was not allowed such delights, and Hadiza would not be there to sneak him any from the kitchens when she’d taken her own meals. So Samson swallowed hard against the watering of his mouth and ignored the fat Fereldan fuck.

Lord Kestrel would not be denied his sport, and purposely blocked Samson’s way to the door leading to the stairs. Samson came up short, drawing in a deep breath but shooting an insolent look at the bald man, who was nearly his height.

“I’ve duties to attend to, begging your pardon, lordship.” Samson muttered, limning his voice in open hatred. Lord Kestrel’s beady green eyes were bright with the promise of good sport. He took Samson’s insolence as an open challenge.

“You dare to speak to your betters, dog?” He demanded. “I could have that look scoured from your eyes permanently if you are not mindful.”

Samson frowned. The Fereldan dog-lord could do no such thing, but far be it from him to gainsay this fool. With Hadiza out, everyone was pushing boundaries with him, seeing how far they could go to taunt and prod him like some chained beast. Samson bore it because the alternative was ironically worse. Still, he questioned if it was worth the abuse.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Hadiza smiling at him through her hair, buried in pillows. He could feel the warmth of her under his hand as he caressed her naked back. He breathed deep, tried to remember the scent of her perfume.

“Do what you like, lordship.” Samson said evenly, “I’ve still got duties to attend.” Again, he made for the door, and again Kestrel blocked the way. This time, Samson sidestepped around him and got to the stairs, but Kestrel was undaunted, flinging his last dagger at Samson’s retreating back.

“The Inquisitor may savor the taste of your corruption on her tongue, now, but that will change. Enjoy it while it lasts, dog.”

Samson didn’t think, he whirled, and knew without having to think that he was making a mistake; two to be exact.

Kestrel had no time to react, but enough time to see what was happening. He jumped aside with a speed his size belied, and Samson overextended his strike, stumbling out of the door. He reached blindly for the table, miscalculated, and snatched the edge of the cloth, bringing down half of breakfast on top of him to the shock of all the nobility in attendance. Samson lay on the floor, covered in fluffed eggs, juicy sausage, a cake, and some other sundry food items from the table.

Kestrel stood, unharmed, smiling in victory.

“What the hell is going on here?” A voice snapped, limned in authority. Samson groaned under his breath. He didn’t need anymore trouble, not from anymore lordlings looking for sport, and certainly not from whomever Hadiza left in charge of the keep while she and her advisors were away.

“Lady Tanneth,” Kestrel said, “it would seem the former Red General is having a bit of trouble minding his footing this morning.”

Samson climbed to his feet, brushing food from his clothes and hair, and wondering with a sick fusion of guilt and shame if he could salvage any of the food for a quick breakfast of his own. He turned to meet the hard stare of Lady Riva Tanneth, a knight from Markham who had served under Commander Cullen during the campaign against Corypheus. Samson knew her from her blonde hair and gray eyes. She wore armor as befitting her station, and gave him not an ounce of pity nor compassion for the trouble.

“You will apologize to the Lord Kestrel and clean up this mess.” She said, brooking no room for argument. Samson, finding no lifeline with which to extricate himself, turned to Kestrel who waited, smiling maliciously.

“My apologies, my lord,” Samson muttered, “I did not mean to cause offense or trouble.”

His stomach turned.

Lady Tanneth did not spare him a second glance.

“My lord Kestrel, you are unharmed, I trust?” She asked, and there was nothing but steel in her voice. The woman reminded him too much of Meredith. No joy, no light, nothing in her but stone and steel and an inhuman drive behind her eyes. It unnerved him and Samson was all too eager to get out of the main hall and down to the kitchens to get one of the cooks to handle it. Still, he knew he had to do it himself. Even the servants felt they were above him.

Maker! It was exhausting.

Samson stopped short of the kitchens, knowing he’d find no succor there without Hadiza’s mandate actively backing him. With her nowhere near to punish anyone who stepped out of line, Samson found he had few defenses to favor him. He had no choice but to ask the Inquisition guardsmen for access to their own gear locker. Samson steeled his will. He had not survived twenty and more years in the Order to be cowed by boys in armor scarce old enough to suckle a whore’s tit.

No matter how blooded their swords were.

Samson made his way to the gatehouse, beginning his ascent up the staircase. He had expected to be halted before he could get near the door, but surprisingly he found himself at the top landing. One guard was posted, a woman of middling years. From the way she looked at him, slightly startled, Samson knew she was new to warrior’s work.

“Need cleaning gear,” Samson said, “mess in the main hall needs tending to.”

The woman stared, slightly ashen. Samson frowned, genuinely perplexed. Then, he saw her hand hovering, trembling, just above the pommel of her sword. Samson relaxed, putting his hands in the air in a gesture of helplessness.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t want any trouble. Just need a broom and a wastebin. Gonna feed the pigs soon after. Just need a key to get to the cleaning gear.”

Her lips moved, but no words came. Samson sighed, then turned and left, making his way back down the stairs. It was a wasted trip, but he had expected no better truly. Instead, he prepared for the possibility that he’d be using his hands to pick every scrap of food from the floor. When he entered the main courtyard, he was relieved to find it mostly empty. Everyone was tending to their own duties, with no attention--good or ill--to spare for the disgraced and weary templar trekking toward the main keep’s front door.

When he entered the main hall he was surprised to find all was in order. The mess had been cleared away, and breakfast was over. Puzzled, Samson made his way further into the main hall, cautious as a wounded animal being hunted. Seeing no one there to scold his slowness or lack of initiative, he turned and went to the stairway leading up to the rookery. The climb was slower, and he was slightly winded. Still, the air grew fresher and crisper as he climbed higher, until the small windows gave view to only the peaks of the Frostbacks and the dazzling array of sun along the snowy slopes.

“You’re late.” Ariadne said from the top of the stairs, looking--if it were at all possible--far more foreboding than her predecessor, the Sister Leliana.

“Bit of trouble in the main hall.” Samson said and Ariadne dipped her head slowly, silver eyes like chipped pieces of silverite. For one who was kin to Hadiza, Ariadne’s eyes bore none of the open warmth and humanity of her sisters. And unlike Aja, whose excuse for heartlessness was the blood-mad rage of the Reaver within her, Ariadne had nothing but the laurels of her training to give credence to the serpentine creature that lurked within the cage of her bones. Samson was more than a little frightened of her, and gave her a wide berth, as did most in the Inquisition.

“Lord Kestrel is a non-factor,” Ariadne said coolly, “I will deal with him and Lady Tanneth.”

Samson hesitated. “Hadiza won’t be happy to find two of her own dead at your hands, Ghost.” He said warily. Ariadne gave him a slow smile that reminded him of a throat cut; it was slow, flesh parting easily beneath a blade, and blood spilling out. Everything about that smile made him wonder had Hadiza and Aja not been present in the Arbor Wilds, that Ariadne would have calmly killed him...and left his body where it lay.

“You misunderstand me a great deal if you think that murder and assassination is all I employ as my marketable skills, Raleigh Samson.” She responded. Samson frowned. Ariadne did not move, even as he attempted to cross into her territory.

“Understand this,” she told him, and on the winds of her voice rode the chilling promise of something _terrible_ , “the Inquisitor may favor you--and for that reason alone you are included in my contract and under my protection by her mandate--but if you continue to cross me, you will find our mutual relationship coming to a very abrupt end. I have extricated you from your daily drudgery that you may put that sword arm to better use and protect the woman you love. Can you do that much, at least? Or must I send an agent and hope they know how to navigate to Hadiza’s side?”

Samson swallowed visibly. “Anyone else and she’s as good as dead.” He said firmly. “I didn’t mean to offend, Ghost.”

Ariadne held his gaze a moment longer, and Samson felt like he was being weighed and measured and judged. Finally, she wordlessly stepped aside and allowed him to pass.

“More dance lessons?” Samson asked as Ariadne led him to the table that was stacked with books and heavy scrolls. She said nothing.

“No, you are a lost cause in that, so we will incorporate that into your ruse.” She said absently. “The ballet premiere is soon and word has come that my scouts have successfully planted rumors and myths of your alleged success abroad. You are to leave tomorrow at first light for Val Chevin.”

“Wait, what?” Samson demanded. “Why?”

Ariadne pursed her lips and unrolled a map onto the table. Having inherited the title of ‘spymaster’ from Leliana, she placed her pieces on several points leading to Val Royeaux.

“If the ruse is to work, it cannot be said you were seen riding straight from Skyhold.” She explained and Samson nodded.

“So I get to Val Chevin and then what? Sail down the Waking Sea to Val Royeaux?” He asked. Ariadne shook her head.

“You’ll circle round on land to Montfort.” She continued, directing him on the map. Samson followed along, making mental notes in his mind. “I’ve agents there readying your ‘caravan’ of Nevarran goods to sell. You need not worry for how to sell them, my agents will handle those affairs on your behalf. Your ‘ship’ will already be moored in Val Royeaux. There’s a shipment of jasmine aboard. I figured Hadiza would not mind buying the jasmine and then selling it in Orlais for triple the price.”

“So any gold I make goes to the Inquisition’s coffers.” Samson muttered dryly. Ariadne smiled thinly.

“You’re still a prisoner, Samson,” she told him, “whatever else you are to Hadiza is between the two of you. Now, once you are in Val Royeaux things will be trickier. I’ve secured your name on the guest list for the Comte de Piedmont’s party, and an invitation. From the moment you leave Skyhold tomorrow, your name is Jean Luc. It’s up to you to find out what you can about this assassination attempt.”

“Couldn’t your agents have done this?” Samson asked irritably.

“Hadiza does not know who they are and I’ll not risk telling her and blowing their covers.” Ariadne said. “You are someone she will trust implicitly. And you can communicate with my agents without arousing suspicion.  If you can neutralize the threat before it becomes one, more’s the better, but if Visage du Soleil is involved, it is very likely there is more than one threat.”

Samson nodded. “A real menagerie of fucking snakes this is.” He muttered. “That all?”

Ariadne nodded. “Yes. Ride hard and swift. As of now, you are all that stands between Hadiza and a disaster I cannot guess at.”

Samson stared down at the map, at the crow markers that detailed his unusual journey into Orlais’ heartlands. He wondered if he would have enough wits left to him to guess at the game that alluded even the Ghost. Still, he would keep faith that the ruse was foolproof, and would have ample time to think of how to fake one of the snooty accents. Doubtless Ariadne chose him for more than the romanticism of him coming to the rescue of his Inquisitor. Samson took one look at the slender woman, whose attentions were turned to the caring of her ravens, and he decided that whatever once lingered within her that could be considered romantic was dead--either by her own hand, or someone else’s.

Thus, he had to believe she chose him for some pragmatic reason and to guess at it would send him into a tailspin of irrational thought, so he turned away to make his way back down the winding staircase, avoiding the sight of looking straight down the center to the bottom-most floor. One slip and he could fall to his death, though he recalled Hadiza leaping clear from the balcony railing and landing as if she’d not fallen the length of the castle. He attributed it to some cantrip she’d cast and thought nothing of it.

Samson reached the bottom of the staircase soon enough, and as he saw a few masked faces in the main hall, he felt something in him stir, cold and paralyzing. He had faced Orlesians before, so why did the thought of facing them amidst their gilded halls chill his blood?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave one if you with me. ✌


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally get our asses to Visage du Soleil.

The headquarters of Visage du Soleil were...humble at first glance. Hadiza had not expected that. The guild had its own massive and sprawling array of buildings, of course; all of which held costumes, stage equipment, dressing rooms, studios for the dancers to practice, music rooms for the musicians, and storage areas. The theatre itself was quartered in its own building, a brilliant amalgamation of Tevinter architecture and Orlesian opulence. The guild’s coat of arms, an Orlesian mask bearing both a laughing face and a neutral face was gilded on the massive doors at the top of the marble steps leading into the theatre.

Hadiza took a deep breath and could not contain her wonder. She had never truly seen it before.

“It is a lot to take in, I know.” Etienne said at her side. “But it is worth it. On no other stage may the arts be exalted in full as they are upon Visage du Soleil’s stage. It is a privilege and honor for us to be apart of this new endeavor.”

Hadiza glanced at him, slightly surprised. She had not expected such passion from him regarding the arts. Every chevalier she’d met had been more concerned with their prowess and how many feathers plumed their helms that they may cut a finer figure in the heat of battle.

It was refreshing, to say the least.

As they ascended the great steps to the theater, Etienne turned to her.

“They are not aware of the deception,” he told her, “so we must keep up appearances.”

Hadiza gazed upon him coolly from behind her mask.

“If you think I’m going to disappear off to some secluded alcove so you can paw at me for  _ the drama of it all _ , you are overestimating my acting ability.” She said dryly. Etienne’s jaw twitched against the tension within it.

“I would never make such a careless mistake as to overestimate your paltry skills as an actress, Lady Inquisitor.” He said harshly. “Would that it were anyone but you that could unlock the possibilities of being married off to some brainless piece of fluff who cares only for parties and tawdry paperback romance novels.”

Hadiza blinked. “I do not understand your vehement aversion to marriage, my lord. Surely not everyone at Court is that repugnant to you?”

Etienne rolled his eyes but said nothing. Instead, they went inside. The foyer was spacious and as grand as Hadiza expected. However, it was also dark, giving the place a sense of abandonment. She unconsciously reached for a spell, and inhaled slightly as her mana swelled within her. She had spent too long in the Deep Roads and the memories of eyes watching from the fringes of the only light she’d brought with her were too fresh for her to do otherwise. Etienne squeezed her arm, surprisingly reassuring.

“You need not fear coming to harm here, Inquisitor,” he said to her, “all of Orlais is in your debt, and it would be a blatant transgression against Her Majesty to cross you.”

Hadiza glanced up at him, silent. Etienne sighed.

“You are right, of course, to be cautious. This is Orlais, after all.” He agreed and Hadiza smiled almost indulgently.

“My lord!” A slender, fresh-faced individual came to greet them. Hadiza’s brow furrowed, unable to discern their gender. A springing wealth of apricot curls crowned their head, and their eyes were as green as rushes. Hadiza laughed inwardly to herself remembering Leliana’s warnings a year prior. So saccharine was this person’s smile that she was almost certain there was something deadly lurking just behind it.

“You do us such an honor with this visit,” they said, “and you most of all, Your Worship. You are the star of the show, after all.”

Hadiza laughed. “Am I to grace the stage? I will own, I’m no professional dancer…”

They laughed and Hadiza found it pretty. They must have been some sort of actress...or a bard. That sobered Hadiza enough to keep her mana uncapped.

“Well, Inquisitor, you have no doubt learned many things on your journey, no?” They said, “Let ballet be amongst them, you may surprise even yourself. My name is Basquiat. Come with me into the theatre, the director is in rehearsal but he is anxious to meet you, Inquisitor. We all are.”

Hadiza smiled as Basquiat turned prettily, and practically glided into the theatre. Etienne followed, still arm-in-arm with her. Hadiza had precious little time to take in the decor, and was sorry for it. The gilded crowning of the foyer alone reminded her of her rooms back home. A chandelier of crystal hung above, unlit. Instead, the curtains of the large windows were pushed aside, allowing the natural, golden light of the sun within. Hadiza felt as if she were on stage, the way the light seemed to beam on them like that of a...theatre. Everything about the place was a call to their art, and Hadiza enjoyed it.

The theatre itself was massive, lined from the orchestra box to the balcony with plush, red velveteen seats. Hadiza glanced up at the private boxes. Some had the curtains drawn, heavy and lined with golden fringe. Others were exposed, and Hadiza could glimpsed marble behind the luxurious couches. Doubtless Etienne had his own private box. Hadiza smiled. One day, she promised, she’d bring Samson here. Then laughed to herself when she imagined his response. He would hate it.

On the stage, which was bare and fully lit, Hadiza witnessed piecemeal what would be fully realized the night of the premier. Dancers and danseurs alike were arrayed in various positions on the stage, and in the center, a willowy woman of Rivaini origin balanced en pointe, her arms as graceful as a swan’s flight, her left hand outstretched toward the sky. She sank into a deep plie, her arms coming in around her body. Hadiza halted, tilting her head. She looked to be in pain, cradling her left hand as she drew it to her chest like an infant. She shrank, until she was kneeling, tilting her head in a way that made her pain the most beautiful thing Hadiza had ever seen.

“Excellent!” A man called from one of the seats in the front row. “You feel the difference, yes? Much better than the arabesque, no?” He was focused on the dancer, who rose like liquid silk to her feet, relaxed. A sheen of sweat graced her skin, her hair thick and pinned away from her face and neck. Basquiat went to the man, kneeling to whisper in his ear. He turned to give a cursory glance at Etienne and Hadiza, before rising from his seat. Hadiza was surprised to see he was also of Rivaini origin, or at least...not Orlesian. She did not have Ariadne or Josephine’s ear for accents so there was no telling where he may have been from.

“My lord Comte,” he said, bowing with his palms pressed together, “you do us great honor. And you, Your Worship, the poems do not do your beauty justice. You are a vision indeed.”

Hadiza flushed hotly despite herself.

“Yes, Messire Anwar,” Etienne said, “we have been told. I promised Her Worship a meeting and a glimpse of what is to come. I do hope I’m not interrupting…”

“No, no, of course not, my lord.” Anwar said with a smile that put Hadiza ill at ease. “You are of course welcome to sit in on our rehearsal. You’ll pardon the poor lighting. We prefer not to waste energy if we’re not performing, you understand.”

“Of course,” Etienne said, “Hadiza, this is Nasir Anwar, the artistic director of Visage du Soleil. His artistic brilliance is unmatched on any stage.”

Nasir laughed. “Oh my lord, you flatter me! Come, we were just rehearsing the scene in which the Inquisitor first closes the Breach.”

Hadiza’s brows went up.

“Truly?” She asked, her voice genuine. “Oh I would love to see it.”

Nasir smiled at her as one would at an indulgent child. “And you will. Please, come with me.”

He led them down the aisle and they took their seats. Nasir remained standing. He clapped his hands once, and immediately all dancers ran--in that strangely graceful way dancers do--to take their places.

“From the ending of the pas de trois, if you please.” Nasir said and Hadiza noticed belatedly that the orchestra was indeed present, cleverly hidden deep below the stage. She almost clapped her hands in delight at the cleverness of it. The music began, and Hadiza watched ‘herself’ come to the stage. The dancer fluttered across the floor on her toes, arms extended. Behind her was another dancer, more aggressive in her fluttering, and Hadiza had to guess that it was supposed to be Cassandra. It had been she that accompanied her on that arduous journey, after all. The other--a danseur--a man with a clean-shaven head, could only be Solas.

Hadiza had almost forgotten Solas had been there too, to direct the mages in powering the Anchor.

The dance was unnervingly beautiful. Hadiza knew that in full costume, with all the mystique of the stage, it would be phenomenal. The pas de trois was intimate and not, as the Inquisitor fluttered between Cassandra and Solas, who then held her close, dipping her until her body bowed with an indescribably lissome grace, her arms outstretched. Solas’ hand traveled up her marked arm, bringing her back up to stretch it toward the sky.

Hadiza sucked in a breath at the tender intimacy of it. It had been anything but, and though Solas had been...cordial, she had never gotten close to him except out of necessity. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She did not know why watching ‘Solas’ and the ‘Inquisitor’ intertwine their fingers toward the sky was so unsettling.

Suddenly, there was a flash of green light, and Hadiza panicked. She leapt from her seat, the air crackling with the energy of her shields. Abruptly, the music stopped, and she heard the sound of a string popping, the tune dying. The dancers all relaxed and all eyes turned to Hadiza, including Nasir, who looked implacable.

She was frozen, and it felt for a moment as if the world were moving in slow motion, as if she were moving through time and space, away from the theater. Suddenly, she was in the courtyard of the Winter Palace, surrounded by harlequin assassins.

_ She’s dead. They’re dead. She’s dead. You crushed her chest yourself! Wake up! _

“Your Worship?” Etienne’s voice was a single light in the fog of her memory. She blinked, and the world came back into focus. She took a deep, withering breath, and reached for a kerchief to pat at the sweat on her brow.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice subdued as she struggled to calm her tumbling pulse, struggled to drown out the sound of her blood beating in her ears, “I just...I thought I saw...Maker...what was that?”

Nasir made a subtle gesture and his dancers cleared the stage, taking a rare and much-needed rest from rehearsal.

“Your Worship,” Nasir said, steepling his fingers, “if you and the Comte would please follow me. Mayhap this is a conversation best held in private.”

Hadiza nodded, and this time, when she took Etienne’s arm, her leaning into him for support was unfeigned. Startled, Etienne made of himself a obdurate support. They followed Nasir out of the theatre, into a smaller side room. Hadiza felt herself wearied trying to take in the details of what she assumed were the guild’s administrative offices. Nasir’s office was tucked away up a flight of stairs, and his name was filigreed along the door, pristine and polished. Within, Hadiza smelled a mixture of rosin and almond oil. She also recognized the warm scent of shea, a nut native to Rivain. Nasir indicated two seats at his desk and a couch, gesturing for them to sit. Etienne helped Hadiza onto the couch, but remained standing.

“I feel as if this is a private matter, Messire Anwar,” Etienne said, glancing down at Hadiza, who seemed far more aware than she had been minutes before, “I will give you two some privacy.”

Before Hadiza could protest, he left.

“Are you alright?” Nasir’s voice changed and Hadiza turned her gaze to him. For a moment, she merely watched him, waiting for her composure to reform. Then, she nodded.

“When a Fade rift was near, the Anchor would spark. I suppose...I have come to get a bit...testy at any flash of green light.”

Nasir nodded sagely. “Of course, of course. And I extend my humblest apologies, Inquisitor. It was thoughtless of me to not consider how this production would impact you. And you are the heroine of the tale, after all.”

Hadiza shifted in her seat, taking another deep breath. Her heart no longer hammered in her chest, and the fever cadence of her blood had subsided, at least. She exhaled.

“How did you manage it?” She asked, and at Nasir’s perplexed expression, added, “The green flash. Some cantrip? Have you mages in your employ?”

Nasir tilted his head and smiled and Hadiza was reminded briefly of a wolf she’d seen, licking its teeth, blood thick and dripping from its muzzle, fangs bared. She decided that she did not like Nasir.

“Normally, I would not reveal such a thing to an audience member,” Nasir said, rising to walk toward a lattice cabinet near his desk, “it detracts from the mystique, you understand. But I feel, you being who you are, you could appreciate such a thing.” He opened the cabinet, though Hadiza could not see how as there were no handles or latches on it. Within was a black lacquered box, which Nasir opened, withdrawing a heavy length of gold chain. Hadiza’s eyes traveled, then widened at the sight swinging from the end.

It was, perhaps, the most beautiful emerald she had ever seen. The clarity, the vibrancy, and even the way it was faceted all served to enhance its beauty. She gasped, pressing her hand to her chest.

“How?” She whispered, unable to tear her eyes away. Nasir chuckled.

“That, Inquisitor, is a good question, and one I will let my stagehands explain as they are the experts on light bending and redirection.” Nasir hesitated. “It is quite a marvel what can be accomplished without magic, truly.”

He held the emerald up higher and Hadiza could not help it; her eyes followed. It was enormous, and gorgeous, and she wanted an entire dress covered with tiny versions of its like! She stood and Nasir replaced the emerald in its lacquered box and shut the lattice cabinet.

“I do hope you can forgive my lack of foresight, Inquisitor,” Nasir said, “I truly did not think of what would happen if you were caught unawares. Even so, before I return you to your...suitor, I must say it is nice to see another Rivaini face in this country. We are so few and far between.”

Hadiza smiled. “Thank you, but you’ll be disappointed to know I am Rivaini in blood only. I have never been to the country, myself.”

Nasir’s brows went up, genuinely surprised. “Truly? I suppose that is fair. I did not want the rumors of you being a Marcher--even an Ostian Marcher--to be true. In truth, it has been many years since I’ve been back home.” He stared wistfully at his hand, examining the heavy gold rings. “Orlais has been home to me for a long while.”

“Really?” Hadiza asked, curious. “Orlesians are notoriously...insular, memory serve. How did you come to be the creative force behind their most coveted performing arts guild?”

Nasir laughed. “Through ingenuity and a patience that would make a Chantry Mother look like a fidgety child. Nothing I have has come without struggle, just as I’m sure your own ascension was not so smooth.”

Recalling the jeer of Orlesians who thought precious little of her, and the doubt expressed by her own companions in those hectic, nascent days of the Inquisition’s formation, Hadiza had to agree.

“And so,” Nasir said, gesturing toward the door, “shall we, Inquisitor? Doubtless the Comte de Piedmont likes to be kept waiting, even if it is for a beautiful woman.”

Hadiza laughed. “I’m sure he’ll berate me for it later.” She tossed her head in defiance. “Or mayhap I will convince him to have a necklace commissioned for me, hm?”

Nasir laughed in obvious surprise, but said nothing.

* * *

Samson did one last check of his saddlebags and supplies before he decided it was time to stop being a coward and go. Ariadne had bequeathed him with maps, all discreetly marked with drop points, watering zones, safe zones, danger zones, and where to procure a fresh horse in case something happened to his. She had also equipped him with his armor and weapons, and blue lyrium. Whatever gold he was equipped with was all he would be allotted for his journey; his passage to Val Chevin was secured, as far as he knew. His route was set, and all he had to do was ride. It felt strange, as he swung into the saddle, to be riding off alone. He glanced up at the high tower of the rookery, knowing full well that Ariadne was watching his departure. With a cursory glance spared to the Inquisitor’s tower, Samson filled his heart with memories as if they too were a vital supply that would sustain him during his long sojourn, and rode off. Whatever Ariadne had said or done allowed him to pass the portcullis and the lookouts uncontested.

And then, Skyhold fell away behind him, and he rode out, armed with his new name, a mask, and a reputation that did not bring him any shame. For a brief moment of expedient joy, Samson considered leaving it all behind. He knew he would not get far, and that it would only be a matter of time before he was right back where he’d been in Kirkwall, and so the joy of freedom faded.

He was inextricably yoked to the Inquisition by circumstance and necessity, and for a moment, Samson was angry with Hadiza for it. She had done this to him on purpose. Bound him to her knowing he had nowhere to go. Death would have been easier--a mercy he deserved and did not deserve all in the same scintillating turn--and she knew that. She may have played the coy and flighty woman but she was no fool. Samson swallowed hard against his anger, burning with shame for having shouldered her with the blame that was his to bear alone.

_ She’s just trying to give you a good turn is all.  _ He thought, his tone accusatory and chastising, as he picked a path down the mountains toward Orlais.  _ She doesn’t deserve that. _

Samson argued with himself all the way down the mountain, until the sun roved to the highest point in the sky. Despite the frigid cold, he was sweating underneath his armor, his body feeling clammy and feverish. He was also feeling the thirst in his throat. Anxious to quell it, he reached and scooped a handful of snow into his mouth. He knew it was futile, knew it was going to do nothing, and now his lips were cold and he was aggravated.

“Fucking Inquisition.” He muttered, painfully aware of his loneliness in the algid air. He shivered, flexing his fingers around the reins and eager to be out of the mountains. It took him the entire day to pick his way down into the Dales, and the mountains’ jagged spine gave way to the gentle, wind-caressed flats of the grasslands. Samson took a moment to breathe in the vista, for as far as his eye could see it was an unending ripple of the Dales. He checked the sun’s position in the sky, turned his mount north, and kept the Frostbacks on his right side. By sundown, he’d not gotten far, and he was exhausted, his body weary from the trek, and his lungs burning. Turning a distrustful eye to the Dales, he forged ahead, using the last of the dying light to find a jagged outcropping of rocks to make camp. Tethering his mount with enough line to graze, he pitched his small tent, and took out the flint and tinder for a fire.

Thus was his camp made, and Samson sat before his meager fire, his mount straying close, also eager for the warmth. He warmed his hands against the fire, curling and uncurling his fingers, willing feeling back into them. With no companions save his mount, which now dozed on foot, leaning as its big, liquid eyes shut slowly.

“Wish it were that easy for me.” He muttered, laughing at himself. For a while, the fire crackled almost cheerily, and Samson was silent. He wondered, not for the first time, if he could simply slip away, get lost somewhere, mayhap as far as the Donarks and beyond. He wondered what sort of life he could make for himself out in the wild and untamed places of Thedas.

_ I’ll go.  _ He thought, feeling a twinge of guilt.  _ At first light, I’ll go. Her life will be easier for it, and you’re not long for the world anyway, old man. _

Samson felt no conviction within himself, knew from the moment he put his head down on his bed roll that he would do no such thing. Betrayal was the reason he was yoked to the Inquisition in the first place, and he could hazard a guess that there was no where in Thedas or beyond he could hide that Ariadne would not find him. And what horrors he subjected himself to before in the name of Corypheus would be but mere dreams compared to what she would do to him.

When the dawn came, he was up, snuffing out his camp and riding north toward the distant coast.

* * *

Surprise notwithstanding, the visit to Visage du Soleil had served to remind Hadiza of the artistic opulence Orlais had to offer. Duplicitous viper’s nest of people aside, Orlesians cultivated the arts in everything they did, from their masks to their food, to their world stage. Hadiza was hard-pressed to begrudge them that glory, and so she didn’t. With night falling, lanterns were lit along the streets, casting the usually vibrant city in soft, golden glows. Save for the alienage, which seemed pitched in shadow with sparing light, Val Royeaux was splendidly lit.

“I am sorry for today, Inquisitor.” Etienne said as they walked arm in and arm down a paved avenue. “I should have considered your own trials in the production of this ballet. Nasir was very adamant about keeping to the authenticity of your journey while highlighting it with a dancer’s own artistry. I understand none of this, but it is not I he must please.”

Hadiza laughed. “Do you truly care what I think, my lord? Or are you worried that you have lost my favor and support?”

Etienne bristled. “Must you be so difficult? Did we not agree to some semblance of transparency between us?”

Hadiza sighed. “You’re right, of course. I’m sorry. I should be helping but...I still do not understand this...ruse. It seems silly.”

“That’s because it  _ is  _ silly,” Etienne said in exasperation, “but it is Orlais, and so I must need play the Game to secure my wealth and legacy.”

Hadiza pursed her lips; her mask was becoming uncomfortable.

“Very well,” she agreed, “so what next? You have gifted me with macarons, taken me to see the rehearsal of a ballet produced to honor me and my deeds, and now?”

Etienne halted, pressing a gentle hand to the small of Hadiza’s back to steady her before she stumbled. He wasn’t paying attention to her, but Hadiza followed his gaze, blinking when she saw, standing in front of a jewelry merchant’s store, a coterie of guards arrayed in all white. She frowned, shoved Etienne a little in the form of a question.

“Duke Ghislain de Bettencourt.” He answered, his voice limned in open contempt. Hadiza raised her brows, not understanding. The name was familiar, but she could not recall where she’d heard it.

“He was one of Duke Gaspard de Chalons’ staunch supporters,” Etienne explained, “he would have ousted Empress Celene himself if not for Corypheus’ agents stepping in to do it. How he is not in disgrace is a question for the ages, truly.”

Hadiza frowned. “It is troubling, my lord.” She said seriously. “If Empress Celene has kept him in favor, she has good reason for it. She is no fool.”

Etienne nodded. “Come, it grows late and we must return to the chateau. Tomorrow, shall we hunt?”

Hadiza startled. “Hunt? As in...rabbits, partridges, and the like?”

Etienne could not help but smile, shaking his head. Maker, she was...interesting.

“And the like. Have you never hunted before, my lady?”

Hadiza puffed her cheeks. “Of course I have, my lord! My father would take us hunting in Ostwick all the time. But I admit, it has been many years since I’ve hunted for sport, and very recently since I’ve hunted for my own survival.”

Etienne watched her a moment, even as their coach drew up further along the road.

“I wager being out in the field merits some degree of savagery,” he said idly, “so I’ll not fault you your lack of knowledge of the sport. You’ve skill in the saddle, at least. But House Trevelyan has never lacked for suitable horsemen or horses.”

“Truly!” A booming voice said, laughter trailing after. Hadiza and Etienne glanced toward the Duke Ghislain, who swaggered toward them, flanked by his honor guard.

“Your Grace,” Etienne said with a bow, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your attention?”

Hadiza did not need to be an expert at the Game to know that Etienne was anything but pleased. Ghislain’s mask covered the entirety of his face, and so his speech was filtered through the mouth shape, which was sculpted into a sardonic smirk. Through the eyeholes, Hadiza could see the summer blue of hawk-like eyes, bright with the vigor of malice.

“I heard tell the Inquisitor was visiting, and it would be remiss of me not to greet our exalted savior.”

Hadiza stirred slightly, and felt her hackles rise in warning. She did not need the bright plumage of his Chevalier’s mask and a clear view of his face to know a duplicitous serpent when she saw one. With Etienne, his perfidy would be par for the course, but Duke de Bettencourt had sided against the Inquisition and from what Hadiza could see, had suffered fairly little for it. She dipped her head in greeting, affording him little else in the way of courtesy.

“I am no savior, Your Grace.” Hadiza said evenly. “I merely sought to put things to right.”

The Duke drew himself up and Hadiza tensed despite the mill of the evening crowd around them.

“I see. And yet the Inquisition remains.” He said and seemed to weigh and measure her with his hooded gaze. “Shaping order from the remnants of the chaos, I take it? I must commend you on your victories as I was not able to before.”

Hadiza resisted the urge to sneer. She smiled instead.

“Only a savior could have performed the miracles you did,” the Duke said, “saving not one but two nations from destruction, and bruising the sky in the process. Who knew a Rivaini sorceress from the depths of the Free Marches would rise to such prominence and choose to save the very people her kind struggle against?”

Hadiza felt her anger spike, her blood running cold. Etienne’s hold on her elbow tightened, feeling the drop in temperature around them. The Duke jerked back in surprise before Hadiza regained control of herself.

“This has been very pleasant, Your Grace,” Etienne said, bowing again and hating every moment of it, “but the Lady Trevelyan and I must be going.”

Before Hadiza could fling a hex in the Duke’s direction, Etienne guided her into the coach, his hands unwontedly gentle. The Duke made a motion to his guards, and as one, they made an abrupt about-face to march back to the jewel merchant.

In the coach, Etienne took his mask off and flung it aside. Hadiza did the same.

“How does Celene tolerate him in court knowing he advocated for her death?” Hadiza demanded. “Does Orlesian perfidy know no limits? What purpose could he possibly serve that some other, more loyal lordling cannot fulfill? How have you people not fallen to cannibalism by now?”

“Be quiet!” Etienne snapped and Hadiza blinked, drawing back as if he’d struck her. “Maker’s Breath, what the hell were you thinking, using magic out in the open like that?”

Hadiza hesitated. “I wasn’t thinking. I know where I know him from, now. At least, I recognize his guards’ uniforms. I fought some of them at the Winter Palace. They were posing as mercenaries but we found their uniforms stashed away as well.”

Etienne frowned. “What?”

Hadiza swore under her breath. “He’s a traitor in every sense of the word. A little frostbite is less than what he deserves for what he’s been party to.”

Etienne laughed dryly. “My dear if you think that, then more than half of the Orlesian court deserves no less.”

“Don’t make excuses for this. This goes beyond the Game and you know it.” Hadiza argued. “You cannot loose a serpent at your back and not expect to feel its bite.”

“Wise words, coming from someone who keeps the Red General leashed to her bed.” Etienne sneered. Hadiza didn’t think. She moved swiftly, a blur of light and shadow, and struck Etienne full across his scarred face. His reaction was instant, and his sword was half derailed from its sheath, only to find a spirit blade leveled at his throat. Hadiza’s gaze was wintery and pitiless, but banked low, like a steadily rising flame, was the true depth of her anger.

“Never again speak on what you do not know, my lord.” She said coldly, and the temperature in the coach dropped. Etienne saw his breath fogging before his face, and his body began to shiver involuntarily. The spirit blade flickered in and out of reality, and he could feel its magic crackling against his skin. What damage could it do to mortal flesh with a mere nick? An ordinary blade would open his flesh and spill his life’s blood, but a mage’s spirit blade could do far worse, and Etienne kept his statuary stillness hinging on that reality alone.

“My apologies, Your Worship.” He said, and meant it. “I did not mean to offend.”

Hadiza did not move. “You did.” She said, “Irrespective, I accept your apology, provided you do not ever bring up that subject for the remainder of my stay.”

She took the blade away, or rather, it simply was no longer there. Then, she gathered herself and resumed her seat across from him. The air smelled of charged ozone and pure mountain ice. Etienne swore he could taste honey at the back of his throat. Hadiza watched him, a dark effigy with starlight eyes.

“So the rumors…” Etienne began but at her change in expression held up his hands. “You’re right. I am sorry. I shall speak of it no more. Though it makes sense, now, why you are unable to convince anyone here that you are besotted with me.”

Hadiza merely look at him evenly, remaining silent, and she silently thanked Viviene and Josephine for their astute training in the Game. Etienne smiled, almost sadly, and took his mask, replacing it.

And for the rest of the ride, there was only silence. Hadiza could not meet the Comte’s eyes and knew not why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the length of this chapter...and pretty much all subsequent chapters. I'm a chatty bitch. Leave one if you with me. ✌


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's lit.

If Samson thought his passage to Fierté du Lion was going to be smooth, he was soon disabused of that notion in the middle of his second day. Having lost time the first day, meandering about, he rode hell-for-leather, chasing the invisible route on his map that Ariadne had marked for him. It was concealed from the prying eyes of counter-spies watching movement coming out of Skyhold, and afforded him a degree of secrecy he wished he’d had when he was on the march.

Of course, this did not account for Thedas’ natural predators.

In retrospect, Samson knew it was his fault for rousing the beast, but survival was his strength, and when the bear rose up to roar at him, Samson felt his blood run hot with the vigor of excitement. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that there was no glory in this, but he needed to survive. The bears of Thedas were notoriously relentless, and Hadiza was not here to magically shield him. He’d bore the mark of a deadly blow from one of the beasts many months prior, and he winced inwardly when he thought on the pink scar tissue wrapped around his ribs and belly. Hadiza would kill him herself if she knew he’d not only defied her orders but engaged a bear on his own with no companions to aid him.

Samson smirked to himself, rolling his shoulders beneath his armor to work out the tension in his neck and back. So be it; he would brave Hadiza’s wrath if need be. For now, he had a purpose to fulfill, and that was more than enough.

The bear must have seen him approach that morning, must have smelled him and his mount long before they reached the shallow pool where Samson could refill his waterskins and let his horse drink its fill. Samson kneeled down, saw his reflection rippling in the gentle surface of the pool, and then disturbed it by plunging his hands into the cool water and lifting it to his lips to drink and wash his face. For a while, all was at peace, and he heard the sounds of fluttering in the distance. He entertained the thought of hunting for a moment, but only just. He did not want to waste energy chasing partridge when he had enough to get him to Fierte du Lion. Still, it was tempting, and Samson wished he’d had more skill with a bow. He had ever been a man with blade-ready hands, eager to strike. The bow and arrow required a degree of skill and patience he lacked.

He watched the birds tumble about and vanish back into the tall grass.

The silence that came after was too heavy for his comfort, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He felt a prickling along his skin as if he were being watched, and he wondered not for the first time if Ariadne’s mission for him had been but a ruse to get him out in the wilderness alone where his death would pass unnoticed. It was not far out of the realm of possibility for a perfidious bitch like her.

He took a deep breath, and glanced at his horse, who raised his head, ears pricked forward. It was all the warning Samson needed. He quickly refilled his waterskins, and went to lash them to the saddle, swinging into it with ease, ignoring the ache in his hip. He’d barely put his boots in the stirrups when the bear lumbered into view, vocalizing. Samson swore softly under his breath. The damned beast was between him and the path he needed to take. His horse skittered uncertainly, and he tightened the reins, urging with gentle words for it to be calm, but a predator much larger than both of them was in full view, and the horse had no intentions of dying that day.

More’s the better, neither did Samson. With another whispered swear that was as much prayer as desperation, he spurred the horse into motion. He tightened the grip of his thighs, and deepened his seat and clung for his life as he guided his horse straight toward the bear. He laughed when he saw the bear’s startled expression, then blanched when it began to charge.

He remembered Hadiza showing him the trick of pinhead turning a horse. The Trevelyans rode as much as they bred, and Hadiza had been weaned in the Antivan saddles atop powerful Friesians. If there was any credit due to her, it was her horsemanship. But Maker it was hard to remember the subtle technique she’d shown him.

He tried it anyway.

The horse responded awkwardly at first, surprised at the direction change, but it leaned into the turn, and Samson with it, kicking up a bit of dust before they went galloping toward the main road.

Samson thought he may yet have survived Hadiza’s wrath, but Ariadne would be sure to kill him for veering from the path she’d given him. He had no interest in tangling with the wild beasts of Thedas when there was a safer road available to him. His horse thundered until Samson chanced a glance over his shoulder. The bear was a brown blur in the distance, but did not seem to be gaining on them. Still, Samson did not know enough to think he was safe. He slowed to a gentle trot, patting the horse’s neck.

“Sorry about that.” He said to the mount, trying to ease the strain with gentle circular motions of his fingers, “Wouldn’t have tried it if I thought we could take the bastard. But I’m no Cassandra Pentaghast, and you’ve no skill with a sword, last I checked. I promise we’ll make camp by sunset. Let’s just get the hell out of here, first.”

The horse responded with silence, but it did snort, as if in agreement.

Samson nodded, turning his companion about until the sun rose to his right. Then he made for the north, toward the small port that would mark the end of the first part of his journey. He felt renewed in his purpose, and shamefully set aside the fleeting moment of weakness in which he contemplated running and never returning.

In the distance, from the top of a large boulder, a hooded figure lowered their bow and turned their attentions to the sky where a single raven flew, gliding on the morning breeze toward the Frostbacks.

* * *

“It’s…” Hadiza stared at the gown as if she could not quite make sense of the artistry in it. Vivienne walked a slow circuit around the dressform from which it hung, gingerly running her manicured fingertips along the rich folds of fabric. Hadiza’s gaze studied the high collar, trimmed in what appeared to be golden embroidery. Upon closer inspection Hadiza realized it was dyed highever weave. The gown itself was merely a sheath, meant to soften the outline of her body.

“I don’t understand what I’m supposed to be.” Hadiza finally said, irritated that Remy had chosen to cover her mostly. When she looked upon the back, there was not so much as a keyhole to expose the back, only a march of gold buttons, each etched with the Inquisition’s insignia. The gown itself was of the purest white, almost ice blue, and accompanying it was a cloak made entirely of diaphanous silk, shot through with the dyed highever weave threads, giving the most subtle shimmer. Hadiza understood a little as to why her dress was so simple in shape and design.

“My dear, just wait until your mask is finished,” Vivienne said, “and then you shall understand why La Fienne is the most brilliant couturier the empire has ever seen.”

Hadiza pursed her lips. The sleeves of the gown were wide and long--they would cover her hands. She was still not sure why Remy had chosen this for her costume, nor what he was trying to evoke.

After they were done inspecting the dress, Vivienne and Hadiza availed themselves to the gardens. It was ever a habit of theirs to walk amidst the flowers and speak as companions rather than colleagues, though Vivienne maintained a certain degree of decorum, even for Hadiza, whom she considered a valued friend.

“How did your visit to Visage du Soleil go?” Vivienne asked and Hadiza’s hand went to turn the gold ring on her finger over again and again. Horse head, band, horse head, band, horse head--

Vivienne’s hand grabbed her wrist, stilling her. Hadiza met Vivienne’s gaze, and saw only the concern of a friend. She resisted the urge to keep turning the ring and sighed.

“As well as it could go, I suppose.” She said, her words faltering slightly without the aid of keeping her hands busy. “I spoke at length with the director, Nasir Anwar. He was a bit...off to me.”

“He’s a performing artist, Hadiza,” Vivienne said absently, “one of the greatest, in fact. It would not be amiss if he was a bit off, as you say.”

“No,” Hadiza said too quickly, making Vivienne raise her brows, “it wasn’t that. There was just something about him. I can’t really explain it. He seemed cordial enough.”

Vivienne waved her hand. “Put it out of your mind, my dear. You’re protected, by yourself as well as by your companions. You’ll come to no harm, and none would dare with the eyes of the world upon you as they are.”

Hadiza nodded, feeling marginally reassured.

“Chin up, darling,” Vivienne scolded brightly, “you and the Comte are to look as in love as…” Hadiza smiled to watch Vivienne struggle to even wrestle with the comparison.

“Not going to say it, Madame?” Hadiza asked slyly and Vivienne limned her in an icy stare and Hadiza flinched, biting her lip on a laugh. Still, Vivienne refused to acknowledge it, and Hadiza felt slightly stung at the fact that someone she respected so much refused to support her in such a personal endeavor as...as love. She wanted to ask what the imperial court had thought of her and Duke Bastien, but chided herself for being cruel. That wound was likely still too fresh, and to prod it would be less than honorable on her part.

Hadiza huffed out a sigh instead.

Later, she dressed to go a-hunting.

As she surveyed herself in the mirror she admired Remy’s stroke of genius. She wore a blouse of cream-colored cambric, and in lieu of a ruffled cravat, was a silk bow, perfectly tied at her throat. Her coat, a velvet number of oxblood red, was embroidered with the head of the Friesian stallion, the symbol of House Trevelyan, upon each breast. Gold buttons etched with the Inquisition insignia decorated its front. Her trousers were nearly the color of her own skin, but were crafted for a fullseat. She wore the knee-high boots and braided her hair in a single cord.

In the mirror, she smiled, bewitched by her own youthful beauty. She touched her face, then, stuck her fingers into the corners of her mouth and stretched her mouth and stuck out her tongue. She was so busy making faces she didn’t notice Dorian leaning in the doorway, watching her, looking all too amused.

Hadiza stopped, turning quickly.

“Dorian!” She said too loudly, making him wince. “I was just...um...getting ready…!”

Dorian raised a brow.

“Please tell me that stretch of time spent playing with your face in the mirror was part of how you get your skin to glow like that.” He said. Hadiza said nothing, but smiled blandly.

“A lady never reveals her beauty secrets, Dorian,” she said, “you ready to go hunting?”

Dorian laughed. Uproariously.

“Oh you’re precious,” he said, “the hunting arrangement was for you and the Comte alone, I’m afraid. The rest of us are to avail ourselves to the grounds as we wish. Which means I am going to try and find out where the Comte keeps his spirits and figure out how to commandeer his private library collection.”

Hadiza sputtered. “Alone? He wants us to go hunting alone?”

Dorian smiled, waving goodbye as he made his way down the hall to hunt down what she knew would be an unfortunate servant tasked with keeping his cup full. She gritted her teeth. She had been certain her companions would attend. If not Vivienne and Dorian then at the very least Thom. Thus attired, Hadiza went on a search for her companions. Sure enough, Vivienne had gone to call upon a friend in the city proper, and Thom had gone into the city as well, presumably to finally have that damned spaulder of his repaired.

“Maker, that could take hours…” Hadiza muttered into the empty room that he’d claimed as his own. She found Cullen sitting in the garden; she hadn’t expected that.

Seeing Cullen put her ill at ease; sitting alone amidst the flowers, his sword naked in his lap, caressing it with a whetstone with a care better-suited to a mother caressing her child. Hadiza hesitated. She did not know how to address him anymore, save for when the Inquisition required it of her, and by now all of the world knew that the golden-haired Commander and his unflappable Inquisitor were no longer an item. Hadiza had not wanted the news to get out but it had been a messy break, and she had been insensitive in her timing.

Still, she did not regret it for an instant.

“Hadiza.” Cullen’s voice was warm, void of the usual chill, and she knew he had momentarily forgotten their feud. Hadiza stared at him, feeling awkward and childish, unsure of what to do with her hands. With gloves, she was unable to reach the ring on her finger to turn it. Sensing her nervousness, Cullen offered an awkward smile.

“I had presumed you’d be off a-hunting with the Comte by now.” He said, and there was a bit of steel in his voice. That sobered her enough to react.

“Not yet. Though I wager we shall be off soon. I had thought you and the others would accompany us.”

Cullen laughed. “It is you he courts, not the Inquisition. I thought you would be used to that by now.”

Hadiza frowned, genuinely stung.

“Cullen,” she said, “is it to always be thus between us?”

Cullen hesitated, but she watched him cling to his anger. It was a warm comfort where he no longer could hold onto her. She steeled herself against him.

“There is nothing between us, Inquisitor,” Cullen said stonily, “you saw to that yourself.”

Hadiza drew back. “That’s not fair.” She whispered, but Cullen would not be moved, sharpening his sword with renewed vigor, as if the ring of steel would drown out the sound of his own self-doubt.

In the distance, hounds barked, eager to be set loose upon the grounds to track their quarry. Hadiza swallowed the lump in her throat.

“You should go.” Cullen told her. “It wouldn’t do to keep your adoring suitor waiting.”

Hadiza thought he might say more, but found to her relief that he was content to leave it at that. She was all too happy to leave him in the garden, making her way toward the stables and kennels, where her horse already awaited her and she was given a crossbow. The Comte was already mounted, looking as arrogant and majestic as any chevalier could, even at his age. Hadiza swung into the saddle gracefully, holding the reins in one hand, and her crossbow in the other. She pulled up alongside Etienne, turning her gaze upon him.

“Shall we, my lady?” Etienne asked, and although he sounded jovial and eager for sport, Hadiza did not feel any better. Cullen had wounded her in a way only he could, and she would not easily recover, even with the promise of such an invigorating activity as hunting.

She gave him a single nod, and they were off, chasing the trail of barking hounds as they swarmed into the woods and brush, tracking scents no human nose could hope to catalogue.

When the chateau fell away behind them, leaving only the sprawling countryside of Etienne’s lands, Hadiza felt strangely at ease. In a sense, it reminded her of Ostwick and, in a small way, of her journey through the Hinterlands during those nascent, hectic days when she was known only as the Herald of Andraste. The air smelled clean, thick with the scent of flowers and crushed grass. Hadiza saw the world go by in a blur, heard and felt the steady breathing of Nyx as he ate up all of the distance between themselves and their unknown destination. So enthralled with the ride was she that she scarce heard or saw Etienne reining his mount in. She barely had time to shorten her reins before she heard the heavy silence that followed.

“Why are we stopping?” She asked, slightly winded, attempting to shake the remnants of excitement from the blood beating in her ears. Etienne wore a half-mask, exposing only his mouth. Hadiza neglected to wear any mask, opting to let him look upon her in full. In the distance, the dogs barked, on the trail of something.

“Ready your crossbow, Inquisitor.” Etienne replied, and was already doing his own. Hadiza’s brows went up, but she complied, unstrapping her crossbow and readying it. It felt unwieldy in her hands, and she realized belatedly that firing a crossbow had not been in her repertoire since...she could not remember. That the muscle memory recalled how to properly load it and aim at all astounded her. Old Ricardo would have been proud that she did not shame his memory that day.

The dogs stopped barking, and Hadiza felt her heart race.

“Steady.” Etienne said, as if sensing her anticipation. Hadiza held herself in stillness. And then, from a copse of trees, a flutter of wings, all of the dogs in uproar. Hadiza felt stunned momentarily but she took aim and then fired.

She should not have expected to hit something, and in truth, she hoped she didn’t. It seemed cruel to hunt for sport and not shoot for the pot. Still, when the partridge fell from midflight, pierced by a crossbow bolt, Hadiza let out a surprised whoop of victory, then quelled her excitement, feeling remorseful.

“Well done, Inquisitor,” Etienne said, having fired two shots, missing the first but piercing his own quarry with the second, “it would seem your childhood hunting trips have served you in good stead.”

Hadiza glanced at him, refusing to let him steal her fleeting victory.

“It would seem so,” she agreed, “though I had grown accustomed to merely throwing fireballs at my prey.”

The dogs were caught up in the frenzy, having caught one of the partridges between them, and Hadiza watched, slightly stunned as the dogs tore apart the bird. As they rode closer to collect their own kills, Hadiza saw the visceral display of blood, gristle, and the sickly bruised blue of intestines strung between the snapping jaws of the dogs, blood and feathers on their muzzles.

Etienne shouted a single word in Orlesian, and the dogs, caught up in their frenzy, backed down, a broken bird between them.

“I hope you plan on having your cooks prepare these before we eat, at least.” Hadiza said dryly. Surprisingly, Etienne laughed.

“Please, Your Worship,” he said as they collected their kills and lashed them to the saddle, “I am Orlesian, not some barbarian from the Highlands. Credit me with some semblance of decency.”

Hadiza smirked. “You are Orlesian, my lord, and as such, decency is a bit of a stretch. I will, however, credit you with being able to show me a good time.”

Etienne hesitated, and Hadiza was curious if the color in his cheeks was from the ride and excitement or somewhat else.

“Truly?” He asked. Hadiza gave a single nod.

“For all that I dislike the politics of your country, my lord, Orlesians do not lack for good sport.”

Etienne laughed again and Hadiza wheeled Nyx around, taking off at a steady trot across the rolling hills. Etienne followed, and the dogs ran after them, led by the one with the bloodiest muzzle.

* * *

It was just after dark when Samson came upon the village of Orleans, and he contemplated braving the wrath of pitchfork wielding farmers for a hot meal and a warm bed. Anything had to be better than shivering by a paltry fire in the Dales night after night as he made his way closer to the sea. But Ariadne had been clear in her instructions: he was to pass nowhere save through the port and afterward, Val Chevin. She had been explicit in stressing that detail. Samson understood on some level why she wished him to pass in absolute anonymity, and part of him wished he could extend that anonymity to his face. A warm bed called his name back in Skyhold, and he laughed at himself to think the only place he could safely lay his head was within the heart of his former enemy.

Samson watched the pinpricks of light as Orleans drowsed in the bosom of safety in the distance. The best he could do was find an outcropping of boulders to shield against the wind. Even his mount stayed near, content to graze and doze in the shelter of the firelight.

He warmed his hands by the fire, thankful that unlike the previous night, it was slightly less pathetic.

In the distance he heard only the silence of heaven, and he felt that strange fear overtake him. Who would he pray to for safe passage? And how far had he strayed that anyone would hear him?

At the altar of the world, Samson had come up empty-handed, save for the blood.

He searched his packs for something, anything, to distract him. He found a book on herbalism, and frowned. It had been amongst one of the books he’d borrowed from Hadiza, and it was from her personal collection. He smiled when he saw the little torn pieces of paper with notes and musings scribbled in her quick and flowing hand. Flipping through the book, he saw diagrams of various plants, some he recognized and others he did not, and a detailed listing of their medicinal function, if they could be mixed in tonics, and what not to combine them with. There were even poisonous plants included--deathroot had an entire chapter dedicated to it and its sundry uses in killing things.

Samson wondered how mages contained all this knowledge in their heads. He could scarce remember the last few weeks most of the time, let alone everything he’d read. Although, he knew that was more due to lyrium than any deficiency within him.

At some point, Samson did not know when his eyes closed, only that he slept, dozing by the fire, and the book slipped from his fingers onto his chest. He bundled down into his bedroll, and finally fell into the peaceful cadence of a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Samson woke just before dawn. His fire was out, nothing but ash, and he yawned, setting about covering the ash with dirt and stones and grass. His ate a cold breakfast of pottage and dried druffalo meat, which he chewed on thoughtfully as he readied his mount. He shivered involuntarily, noting that a soft fog had settled on the land. Orleans was just a blurred, gray shadow in the distance, and as Samson swung into the saddle, he sighed. He wanted to go into town to buy a hot meal, but he felt that somehow Ariadne was watching him.

As dawn crawled across the land, and the Frostbacks became more illuminated along the clandestine route he rode, Samson felt a bit more optimistic. His belly was nowhere near full, but he had food to eat, clean water to drink, and he was at least warmly attired. Ariadne was hard, but she was fair in equipping him at least. He gave Orleans a wider berth, letting it blur into a fuzzy shadow on his left as he and his mount ate up the distance. He swore, at some moment later in the day he could smell the sea. He was Kirkwall born and bred and despite everything, his blood still had saltwater in it. Any son of the Marcher coast knew the smell of the sea. Even Hadiza was inexplicably drawn to it, being a daughter of Ostwick.

He felt his optimism rise. The closer he came to the port, the stronger the scent became. It was wet and tangy with brine, and overhead he heard and saw the gulls circling, crying out. His heart grew lighter, and he felt himself grinning hard into the wind. The port was in sight, and he felt the time of warming his hands by meager fires in the cold was at an end.

He slowed his mount when he realized he forgot to obscure his face. Although he found it silly, he knew it would be better to be safe than face a bunch of angry backwater villagers. All the world hated his face.

 _Not the whole world._ He thought glumly, remembering the rose petal press of lips to his face. He smiled, pulling the scarf up over his nose and mouth.

By the time he crossed into the small port, the sun was weak and watery in the sky, obscured by cloud cover, and a misting rain began to fall. For all that it was a port, it was surprisingly quiet, but after being embroiled in the ancient silence of the wild world, Samson felt as if he was in Kirkwall all over again. Fisherman called to one another across the docks, market merchants hawked their wares in crude accents, and the stink of humanity competed with the clean, brined scent of the sea.

Samson could not have been happier, and he made for the docks in haste, dismounting to walk amidst the crowd, glad for the grime of the road that made him seem as if he were just another bit of the rabble. Well, at one point, he was...but no longer.

It gave him pause to consider that there was a possibility that he was more than filth, now.

And then he felt it, but he reacted too slowly, a slight pressure at his belt, the feeling of the pressure suddenly gone, and a tiny figure darting away, clutching his coin purse.

Samson swore under his breath and took off after the youth. He’d chased and roughed up enough pickpockets in Kirkwall to know the youth did not act alone, and that he had scant moments before he careened headlong into a trap.

He wove through the crowd, pushing aside unsuspecting passerby, swearing at them to move out his way. He saw the thief clamber up some crates, toward the low-lying rooftops, and swore again with a sailor’s eloquence. There was no way in all of the Maker’s sodding creation he was going to climb up to the fucking roof.

Winded, angry, and now void of his traveling coin, Samson made his way back to his horse, and was relieved to find the beast lumbering toward him without so much as a care in the world. He took the reins and leaned against his mount, trying to catch his breath.

“You had better be in the most dire straits when I arrive, princess.” He muttered, “I’m too old for this shit.”

Samson held his position, content to breathe, until his horse rumbled as if to say he should get his ass moving, and so that is precisely what he did. Thus robbed, with not a single copper to his name, he went about searching for the dockmaster to find his ride across the sea.

* * *

Not bothering to change out of their riding clothes, Etienne and Hadiza took a walk.

“I wanted to apologize,” Hadiza said, “for how I reacted the other evening. It was unworthy of me.”

Etienne sniffed, and considered an angry retort, but he sighed. He had made a promise not to dissemble with her, but he found it difficult. He disliked giving over any control to a potential rival, even if she was kind.

“It was not my place to drag your personal life out in the open like I did. Shall we call a truce and put the messy matter behind us?” He asked. Hadiza stopped them, and paused.

“Yes.” She said, looking at him, her expression guileless. “After all, it is not as if you are seriously courting me for marriage, my lord. This is all a means to an end for you.” She waved her hand dismissively. Etienne paused, looking away and clearing his throat.

“Of course, of course. Still, it is a bit hard to maintain the deception when we are alone.” He laughed. “Perhaps another visit to the city proper is in order. A boat ride in the bay? I hear that is the current trend of many couples at Court.”

Hadiza smiled. “As you say. I’d like that, actually...and it would help to actually be seen with me in public, hm?”

Etienne laughed, but it was subdued, almost reserved, as they rounded the corner and saw a gilded coach pulling up the drive. Hadiza’s own mirth faltered when she saw the gilded mask of Visage du Soleil upon the door. Etienne’s grip on her became harsh, almost painful, and she elbowed him to snap him out of whatever reverie had ensnared him.

“Are you alright?” She asked and Etienne took a deep breath, blinking like a waking dreamer.

“Yes, of course.” He said quietly. “I just was not expecting visitors. I hope all is well for Nasir to pay a visit personally.”

Hadiza disliked Nasir, but she said nothing, making a show of being close to Etienne, which, she would admit, was not as insufferable as she expected. He was beginning to warm to her, and she to him, despite her disapproval of this farce. Still, he knew her heart lay elsewhere and he was going to have to accept that.

So why did she entertain the possibility that her life would be a great deal easier if she simply...allowed herself to believe it was real?

“Messire Anwar,” Etienne said as they closed the distance to meet Nasir at the chateau’s front steps, “very few people would breach my gates unannounced.”

Nasir fixed Etienne with an unbothered stare, aquiline features impassive as he brandished a hand laden with gold rings.

“I would apologize, lordship, were it not a matter of import and discretion.” He looked pointedly at Hadiza. “Inquisitor.”

“Serah.” Hadiza greeted, her tone reserved, unsure of how to read him. Nasir turned his gaze back to Etienne.

“If I may, my lord, have a private word with you. This shall not take long.” He said. Etienne hesitated a moment, but finally released Hadiza’s arm.

“Dearest,” he said and Hadiza tried not to look startled at the address, “can you manage not to get into any trouble while I meet with the director? I want to make sure everything is perfect.”

Hadiza met his gaze and held it. For a long moment she wanted to ask him what the issue was, for everything about this situation was odd to her, but she chided herself on being suspicious, and reasoned that mayhap Nasir did wish to discuss something with Etienne, after all, it was the Comte funding the entire production. She tilted her head, gave her most coquettish smile, and laughed.

“Of course, darling.” She said, attempting to mimic Vivienne when she’d caught her prey unawares, “Try not to keep me waiting too long. We’ve so much to…discuss, after all.” She gave him a once-over, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes, brushing her fingertips over his arm suggestively. She felt him hesitate again, and released him, watching as he and Nasir went into the chateau. She waited, saw Etienne’s head turn, just enough that she could tell he was glancing at her.

She smiled.

Thus alone, Hadiza debated doing some snooping. Her companions were all in the city, likely availing themselves to all manner of delights. Vivienne would likely not return to the chateau, having taken up residence in her own townhouse in the city, and Dorian a guest. Thom on the other hand had no such invitation extended to him, and was stuck in the chateau with her.

Hadiza felt a little remorseful. She pitied Thom his lack of friends, truly. But she understood it. Even Aja had taken up residing in the city along with Josephine who kept a residence there. And Cullen was here in the chateau but he might as well have been a damned stranger.

Thinking about Cullen left a sour taste on her tongue and she hated that feeling. She glanced up at the chateau’s windows, trying to discern which one was Cullen’s. She hated in that moment, bitterly angry with him for holding her own heart against her.

 _It’s not my fault he is afraid of what I am!_ She thought darkly. _I tried with him, Maker knows I did. He can stew by himself, the self-righteous bastard._

She immediately felt regret for having thought those words. Cullen had tried his best, both as her commander and as a man. He had tried too, and Hadiza heaved a sigh, and made her decision.

She went inside, waving away the servants as they asked to take her coat, to bring her refreshment, to do anything for her that distracted her from her goal.

“Have you seen his lordship?” She asked. One of the servants bobbed in a nervous curtsey.

“No, Your Worship. We thought he was with—“

“He’s in his study, if you must know.” The other servant interrupted, earning a dark look from their companion. Hadiza blinked, perplexed, but nodded.

“Thank you,” she said and without bothering to ask where his study was, Hadiza set out. It did not matter, because with her companions out of residence, and no one there to truly restrict her movements, Hadiza was able to maneuver through the chateau as unobtrusively as one of the servants. Finding Etienne’s study was easy, as it was sequestered in the library, and really, who could fault her for being in the library availing herself to his robust collection?

She could hear the whisper of discussion when she entered the library, finding it empty. The marble halls made the whispers sound deafening in the silence. She shifted her footing, walking toe-first, heel-second as Old Ricardo taught her long ago. It dulled the sound of her footsteps to barely a tap, and when perfected in the right footwear, would render one’s footsteps silent.

“—Foolish to bring her so close to home.” A voice said nastily. “We already agreed that you are not the most suave or charming of Orlais’ Chevaliers.”

Hadiza’s brow furrowed as she paused at the door to listen.

“How else am I supposed to convince her I am genuine, Nasir? She brought her companions with her. It was the only way to ensure I would ever be alone with her long enough to learn anything!” It was Etienne who spoke.

Nasir sighed, and Hadiza heard him move across the study, his luxurious robes whispering with each movement.

“And what have you learned? That she loves sweets and is a decent shot with a crossbow? Your slow-encroachment is wasting time, and my employer grows impatient with your lack of progress. You must get her into position if this is to work.”

Hadiza considered barging in but she knew precious little of what Nasir was capable of. But she felt her stomach drop. Had she walked into a trap?

“The party is in a few days’ time,” Etienne said, exasperated, “I’ll make my move then. The night of the premier, she’s your problem.”

Nasir scoffed. “She would not be a problem if you would focus. Do you need to be…recalibrated?” Hadiza bit her lip on a gasp when she saw a flash of green light beneath the door.

Etienne sputtered. “What? No, of course not! Tell your employer that we are going to proceed as planned.”

Hadiza felt her mouth go dry. Even though she had expected something like this, it did not dilute the shock of it. She startled when a hand took her arm, stifling a cry as she turned to see Cullen looking at her. He placed a finger to his lips, and she nodded as he guided her away from the door. They barely made it across the library before Hadiza saw the study door swing open. With naught else left to her but instinct, she took Cullen’s face in her hands and brought him down for a kiss.

It took him by surprise to say the least.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered when she pulled away. Cullen’s face was red, but he understood, clearing his throat as Hadiza stepped away from him, her confusion and fear unfeigned.

“Well.” Nasir said, looking self-satisfied, “It would seem that old flames still burn brightly, my lord.” He made his way down the corridor, glancing at Cullen smugly as he passed. “Commander. Your Worship.” He spared Hadiza a glance that chilled her blood.

Etienne was left standing, watching them both.

“Etienne…” Hadiza murmured, genuinely sorry he’d witnessed that display, and then, remembering his perfidy, hardened her heart.

“Commander Cullen,” Etienne said, “much as I know your history with the Inquisitor, I believe it would be prudent if you took up residence in the city for the duration of the stay.”

Hadiza felt her stomach drop. Her fear was palpable. She needed him there as he was the only witness to what she’d heard. He could warn the others. She dared not glance at him, and hoped he would contact Vivienne and Josephine at least. Maker, she hoped he could put aside his anger and do what was best for all of them.

“I agree.” Cullen said, glancing at Hadiza, his brow knit in consternation. Hadiza said nothing, made her face impassive, her body rigid. Etienne glared at her from behind his mask, and she could not tell if his anger was at her or Nasir. She wished it was the former.

Cullen executed a courtly bow. “My apologies, my lord.” He said stiffly, and then rose and left, leaving Hadiza alone with Etienne.

“Do you still love him?” He asked without preamble. Hadiza had the decency to look affronted.

“What? No! It was…a moment of weakness.” She flailed inwardly to conjure up a better lie. “I kissed him to see if anything in me still felt for him.”

Etienne was no fool. “You and I both know your heart belongs to another templar, Inquisitor. You can lie to yourself, and even to the Commander whom I wager knows the truth better than anyone, but do not do so to **me**.”

Hadiza wanted to remind him that his entire ruse from the ballet to the invitation was a lie to set her up for what she could only assume would be an attempt on her life, but she was bound. If she wanted to catch the bigger fish, she had to cast her net and wait. She knew it meant either lying and using Cullen as her scapegoat, or confirming the rumors regarding Samson. Maker’s Breath she wasn’t ready for scrutiny about either of them!

“Cullen and I work very closely together,” she admitted, “and while we are no longer together, one cannot simply turn aside the feelings, can they? Or is that another quirk of Orlesians I am ignorant about?”

Etienne laughed bitterly. “There are entire libraries of books filled with things you are ignorant about, my dear.” He came toward and Hadiza felt her heart hammering in her chest, and opened the well of her mana, visualizing a paralysis glyph in her mind’s eye. Etienne reached up, traced her cheekbone with a fingertip.

“You have them all fooled, Your Worship,” he said, and Hadiza frowned up at him, “making them think you are just some naive Circle mage. But I have seen your handiwork, _Hadiza_. You’re up to your elbows in blood, aren’t you? The Wardens barely survived your ruthless and hard usage of them. In fact, it is my belief that _none of them survived_.”

Hadiza shuddered at the mention of her name, felt her body grow cold at the mention of the Wardens—a stain on the brightness of her name she could not wash away. It was the first time he’d spoken it since they met, but never had she hated how it sounded on someone else’s lips.

He took his hand away. “In any case, it matters precious little to me whom you spread your legs for, so long as you maintain the image that that someone is me while you are here.”

Hadiza slapped him.

Etienne’s mask clattered and skidded across the floor, vanishing under one of the tables. For a moment they merely stared at one another, and Etienne laughed, his twisted face uglier than she remembered. She had wanted to believe he was not like other Orlesians, that his being a chevalier and having seen the ugliness and cruelty of war would sour him on the cutthroat politics of the court; but he was no different than the rest of his people. He might have even been worse.

“I am throwing a fête in a few days, Inquisitor.” Etienne said, going to retrieve his mask. “I expect you to look your best for me. I’ve a marvelous surprise I think you’d love.”

Hadiza watched him go, repressing a sneer when he winked at her before replacing his mask, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was aware she’d overheard him. Until she knew more, until she knew who was pulling the strings, she was trapped.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to move this shit along, please bear with me. Leave one if you with me. ✌


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadiza is frustrated with her hostage situation and Samson is making questionable decisions as usual.

The port got busier as the day went on, but Samson found the dockmaster, who then pointed him to where his ship was moored. He’d done sea voyages before to know he’d be limited to how much space he had, and if he knew Ariadne—which he didn’t—she would not have made this voyage an easy one. There would be a catch, something that would remind him that while he acted in service to the Inquisition, he was still…himself.

Of course, he was right, but not in the way he expected at first.

When he came upon the ship moored at the pier, a swift and sturdy vessel called _The Deliverance_ , Samson wondered if the Inquisition owned ships at all. He recognized the standard of Bastion snapping in the afternoon breeze, and a for a moment, he was back in Kirkwall. The docks were always busy in Kirkwall, sailors crawling all over the rigging of their ships, or hauling cargo crates aboard the ship. For a moment, he was awed by it all, how every individual sailor moved with a sense of purpose, calling to one another across the deck and gangplank.

Samson envied them their sense of place.

“You going to stare at it all day?” A voice piped up beside him. Samson turned his head, staring into the smirking face of a woman his own age. She had weathered skin, Rivaini-dark, and eyes like dying coals, save for the left, which was milky white, clouded over.

“Just admiring the view,” he replied, “been awhile since I’ve been by the sea.”

She nodded sagely, understanding, and made her way onto the ship. Samson’s gaze followed her, then he remembered his mission. He sold his horse, and what tools he didn’t need, and condensed his load to a single seabag, shouldering it before making his way aboard. He was halted by a sailor, a hard looking man who was clearly not to be trifled with. Samson knew when to keep his nose down.

“You Jean Luc?” The man asked and Samson almost didn’t answer, having momentarily forgotten that here, he was not Raleigh Samson, the templar fallen hard from grace and responsible for more unspeakable war crimes than he wanted credited to his legacy. No, he was Jean Luc, the Orlesian merchant prince, charming and worldly and cultured.

“Aye.” Samson said, tilting his head. “You the captain?”

The man let out a bark of laughter, but said nothing. Instead, he gestured to the steps leading to the quarterdeck. Samson was surprised to find the woman who’d greeted him earlier there.

“Check in with the Cap’n before you find your bunk.” The other man warned. Samson nodded. He was not so green as to have no recollection as to how a ship was run. Still, he went to the quarterdeck, feeling as green as any new passenger who’d scarce dipped a toe in the sea, let alone taken a whole voyage. He was aware, in a way he knew the salty sailors were not, of the gentle sway of the ship even when moored. Everything smelled wet and brined, and the air was tangy with it, moist with the ebb of the late winter storms. Spring was crawling from every crevice of the earth, and here he was about to abandon it in favor of some nugbrained plan to save the Inquisitor.

“You must be the infamous, Jean Luc.” The woman said, staring at him with her mismatched eyes, amused as a cat licking its fangs at a small bird. Samson remained impassive for a moment, and then remembered he was supposed to be charming. He had no idea how to be.

“Aye,” he managed gruffly, “that’d be me. You the Captain?”

The woman looked around, much to the amusement of her crew.

“Last I checked, and for many voyages to come, if Priam doesn’t get fed up and murder me in my sleep before long.”

“Still plottin’, Cap’n!” The man who’d stopped Samson called from across the quarterdeck. Samson pursed his lips. For a merchant vessel they seemed rather convivial. The crew was a mixed bag of nationalities. Samson recognized a few Marcher accents, some Nevarran, and even a Ferelden or two.

“Captain Odette, at your service.” The woman said. “Find a bunk, we’ll be underway within the hour.”

Samson had so many questions, but decided it would be better to find a space. The ship was built for speed, he could see that much, but from what he remembered most merchant vessels were. He found the berthing below on the second deck. Crew was quartered on one side, but there was precious little room for anyone else. In fact, as far as Samson could see, he was berthing _with_ the crew. He found an empty hammock, and stored his things in the accompanying chest, bound to the deck.

“So, you the special guest we were told about, eh?” Priam asked from the doorway. Samson looked up, unsure if he should scowl or just frown. He opted on keeping his expression implacable.

“That’d be me.” He said simply. Priam snorted.

“You couldn’t pass for an Orlesian pissboy if you tried.” He said. “I know a Marcher when I hear one. Kirkwall?”

Samson didn’t answer. Priam nodded.

“Smart man.” He teased. “In any case, Cap’n requested a word with you in her quarters. If you’re Kirkwall stock, I expect you know your way around a ship, at least.”

Samson didn’t answer but then, “Where’s the Captain’s quarters?”

Priam stared at him hard for a moment. Samson feared nothing from this man. He reminded himself that he had stared down far worse things than a sailor trying to pry into his personal business. Still, there was something off about all of it. He felt as if there were too many eyes on him, too many ears stretching to hear his words. Samson remembered long ago when one of the more devout recruits in his heyday had taken a vow of silence. For the remainder of his training every templar within the grounds made an effort to get him to speak. The recruit had endured, and had come out the harder for it.

Samson did not think he had that kind of resolve to keep his own counsel, and prayed for a swift journey.

He went to see the Captain.

Her quarters weren’t lavish, which surprised Samson, but they were spacious and a great deal more comfortable than the crew berthing that much was certain. He stood, awkward and unsure, knowing he was doing a shit job of playing the part of a man used to such luxury. He still hadn’t acclimated to Hadiza’s bed, how could Ariadne have expected him to play the part of lordling?

“Jean Luc.” Odette’s voice was scraped raw with experience, and she sat at her desk, her booted feet propped upon its surface. She smoked a pipe of  some heady scent of elfroot and somewhat else. Samson liked it, but he was unsure of her.

“You’re not Orlesian.” She said, blowing a cloud of smoke toward him. Samson frowned, saying nothing. She laughed.

“So stoic! It’s alright,” she took another pull from her pipe, “I know precisely who you are.”

Samson remained reticent, and that was when she hummed that damnable song.

That was his legacy.

Odette watched the restraint tear at the seams of him and smiled like a cat licking cream. Samson took a deep breath through flared nostrils and exhaled. He hated that song--would always hate--for however long the Maker saw fit to let him live. He hated it more when it was used by those whose help he needed. Hadiza had never sung it, Andraster be praised, but the girl couldn’t hold a tune anymore than a fork could hold water.

“Your benefactor has made me aware of your need to get to Val Chevin.” Odette continued, heedless of his anger, seeing only a mission, now. “But the method of payment has altered.”

Samson blinked.

“Then take it up with them.” He said, then added at her withering glare, “Ma’am.”

Odette swung her legs over, setting her feet on the deck. She stood, and Samson was aware of how little power he truly had. She rounded the desk with the ease of a woman born to rule the waters be they storm-tossed or calm.

“It has already been dealt with,” Odette said, the soft glow of the lamplight making her look preternatural in the shadows cast around her gaunt face, her milky eye staring directly at him. She looked as if she occupied the region between life and death, and that frightened Samson.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?” Samson asked, a warning note in his voice. Odette smirked and closed the distance, and Samson wondered if she had always swayed like a serpent.

“Your coin is useless to me,” she explained, “for you have far more valuable skills I can use as payment.” Samson clenched his jaw when her hand slid along the length of his sword’s scabbard.

“You want me to fight for you?” Samson demanded. “Sorry, ma’am, but my sword arm belongs to--”

“Me until I decide you’ve paid what this trip is worth.” Odette said harshly and Samson stepped away from her, but she was there again, too close for comfort, smelling like smoked elfroot and far away lands and the sea and the rank sweat of a woman who worked as hard as she killed. For that is what she was, when he saw the blade prodding at his belly: a killer.

“Fight?” Odette laughed. “Perhaps. But with your abilities I doubt you will need to do much more than that.”

In that moment, Samson understood a little of what she was demanding of him.

“Ain’t done that kind of work in some time.” He said evenly. Odette trailed her blade along the line of his belt.

“Mm. I’m sure, but there’s not a templar born in this world who does not have the ability to subdue a mage.”

Samson felt his blood run cold. This time, when he stepped away from her, he halted her at arm’s length.

“You’ll not turn me into one of your damned mercenaries.” He said. “The Inquisition wouldn’t countenance it.”

Odette looked amused still, as if he was as threatening as a mote of dust to the wind. Her smile was so much like Ariadne’s that Samson suspected the spymaster was not at all ignorant of how events would go. He held Odette’s gaze, though, held it in hopes she would see the hatred, the naked truth of the power that his old bones once caged, and look away.

She grinned.

“Ajani.” She said curtly, looking past him. Samson hazarded a slow glance toward the door. There stood the slender youth he’d run into that very morning, the one who’d stolen his coin purse. The youth held that self-same coin purse up, tossed it, and Odette deftly caught it. At her order, the youth--Ajani--left, skipping along the deck.

“I’m giving you a choice, Samson,” Odette said, “to either fund your own voyage, or to keep your coin, do me a favor, and still get where you need to go.”

Samson glowered. His coin bag was heavy, and even he could see that not a single silver had been plucked from it. Odette’s weathered fingers held it firmly.

“You mean my passage was never paid for,” Samson said, “and my ‘benefactor’ failed to mention this to me.”

Odette grinned again and Samson noticed her gold teeth. Rivaini and gold teeth, what was it about that? She tossed his coin purse from one hand to the other and Samson understood by then that he was in no position to truly bargain.

“Your benefactor was very open to the idea, said you would likely choose to use your sword rather than spend what little coin you have remaining to you. As it stands, I am generous and will not take your money.”

“You want me to be your own personal bloodhound.” Samson snapped bitterly. “I am no one’s hound.”

Odette’s milky eye looked shrewd in the wavering lamplight.

“Aren’t you?” She asked and Samson clenched his jaw and his teeth on a nasty retort. He wondered not for the first time if any of this was worth. If _she_ was worth it. And like always when such treacherous thoughts rose to the surface of his mind like pond scum, he felt sick at it.

“The circumstances are different.” Was all he said through gritted teeth. Odette nodded sagely.

“I see. So when you arrive in Val Chevin, penniless with naught but the things you came with--if that--how will you ride to your Inquisitor? You sold your horse just this afternoon, and as you can see…” She moved to one of the starboard portholes to pull back the curtain.

“We are already underway.” She turned to face Samson, smiling at the color draining from his face. “So what will it be, Red General? Bloodhound for a day or penniless for the rest of your miserable life?”

* * *

Not since her invitation to Halamshiral a year and more prior had Hadiza felt so much dread. Etienne had tipped his hand, but it had revealed nothing--not enough that she could escape him with a blind threat at her back. No, he had tipped just enough to let her know that she was standing in the gallows, the rope poised to loop about her neck. If she moved too soon, he would strike...or whomever he employed would. Hadiza knew there were assassins within Visage du Soleil, she had glimpsed the harlequin masks. The Duchess Florianne de Chalons had employed members of the guild to fight at her side and on her behalf. She remembered it all as she paced her bedroom--now a gilded prison--in the dying light of the sun.

“Of course,” she whispered to herself fiercely, “of _course_.”

She remembered all too well why the gilded mask had looked so familiar.

She had been played from the beginning...but why?

That was the most important question to ask, she surmised. She could not guess why Etienne would side against her when he fought alongside the Inquisition cheek and jowl, when he had advocated for keeping Celene as Empress against Gaspard de Chalons and a host of the entire coterie of chevaliers at his command. He had been a virtually lone dissenting voice against the tide of chauvinistic tradition.

Why would he suddenly want her dead? To Hadiza, who recalled desperately all she had studied on the Piedmont lineage, it made no sense, this shift in loyalties.

Loyalties. Hadiza laughed hysterically.

“Of course,” she whispered again, and turned toward her door. He had not, thank the Maker, confined her to quarters, content to let the Game bind her as it would, but nor was she allowed to leave the grounds unescorted. Hadiza could only hazard a guess that it meant anything she wished to find was not on the property. Which meant her answers lay within the gilded halls of Visage du Soleil. And she would never see them again until the night of the premier.

Hadiza clenched her fist and reached for her mana.

It was barred from her.

She gasped, her body going rigid with fright, her eyes wide. She turned a quick circuit of the room, seeking...what? She did not know what she was looking for. Etienne or someone had made the room mage-proof. She was powerless, but she was not unarmed. Still, even her skill with a blade would not be a match for a seasoned chevalier.

She sat on the bed, hot tears of frustration in her eyes. By now Cullen should have warned the others, they would come for her, and likely they would be turned away.

 _Vivienne could do it_. Hadiza thought, fanning the spark of hope into a wickless flame guttering in an ugly breeze. She dashed the tears away, determined to find a way out of this situation. Without magic, she would have to rely on her wits. The coach had not been laden with mana suppression, which meant he had not expected...her outburst. In truth, neither had she.

Hadiza sat for a long while, even as the sun crept out of view, plunging the room into the soft darkness of dusk. Almost as soon as Hadiza considered leaping from her balcony to attempt escape, a knock sounded on her door.

The elven servants who once looked upon her with eyes downcast, now looked upon her with smug disdain, though there was still a shrinking about their bodies that denoted their station. Hadiza lifted her chin in defiance. She refused to be cowed, least of all by the servants.

“His lordship requests you be ready for dinner within the hour.” One of them said, with thinly veiled contempt. Hadiza frowned. Within the hour?

“He also requests that you wear this.” The other spoke, and proffered a lacquered box. Hadiza brushed her fingertips over its surface. Then she opened it.

Her gasp seemed to deepen the smugness of the elven servants before her, but she ignored it, because she was fixated on the object within the velveteen-lined box. It was a single choker. Hadiza reached to lift it for inspection. It was simple in its design, a wide band of black velvet, a tight clasp, but from it hung a brilliant emerald. Hadiza stared at it, wondering where she would ever see such a clear-cut jewel ever again.

And then she remembered Nasir had a similar emerald, only larger, and set the jewel back in the box.

“That is kind of him, but I am not wearing anything tonight that would even do this justice.” She said. The servants did not move, however.

“He said to come as you are, Your Worship.” The first one said, and Hadiza tensed. It sounded vaguely like a threat. She glanced dubiously at the choker. She knew in her heart of hearts that something was off about it, but could not for the life of her say why. It was a feeling, like light flickering around in her peripheral vision, but when she turned her head it was gone. She picked up the choker and sighed.

 _Andraste guide me_. She thought and put it around her neck.

She waited, but felt no different. Then, she settled her gaze on the servants. This time, they bowed, eyes downcast. Hadiza frowned, pushing past them to head toward the dining hall.

Unlike the previous nights, where Etienne waited for her at the top of the stairs to escort her down, he waited for her at the bottom. Hadiza made her way downward, putting on her best Inquisitor face that she could muster. Her thoughts felt muddled and disorganized, however, but she didn’t to pause to rub her temples as she wanted. Instead, she steeled her will and met her enemy of his chosen battlefield.

Etienne held out his hand, and Hadiza might as well have taken the hand of a demon for all the warmth the courtesy lacked.

“Even like this you are beautiful, Inquisitor.” Etienne said sweetly, guiding her closer to escort her.

“There is no one here to fool, Comte.” Hadiza said dully. “Why continue this farce and do what it is you lured me here to do?”

Etienne _tsk_ ed blithely, as if chastising an ignorant child.

“Now, my love, is that any way to treat your host? Surely your advisors coached you on the decorum of Orlesian courtesies, yes?”

Hadiza ignored him, gave him a sullen sidelong glance. It only made him laugh behind his chevalier mask.

As they entered the dining hall, Hadiza felt her hope rekindled when she thought saw her companions arrayed at the table. For a moment she wanted to blurt out that they were in danger, that there was some plot unfolding to which the details were still unclear, but when she opened her mouth, she found her voice did not so much as die in her throat as it dissolved. The illusion faded, and she realized she and Etienne were alone.

She went still, her hand flying to her throat in surprise.

“For your sake,” Etienne whispered in her ear, “it would be best to practice the virtue of silence tonight.”

Hadiza’s rage smoldered beneath her skin, but her mana was barred from her, trapping her power within her flesh, shutting the door to the Fade, rendering her weak with the futility of it all. Would that she were Ariadne or Aja, who would have no qualms running the bastard through, the Game be damned. For a moment, she considered it, examining the dining table for anything sharp she could pilfer.

Etienne was no fool, and the meal for the night was a rich and savory soup eaten with spoons. Hadiza glared at him, eyes blazing. Etienne idly held up his goblet, let an elven servant pour his wine, and sipped as if he were merely having dinner with an esteemed guest.

Hadiza tried to speak again, but her voice turned to ashes in her throat, rendering it dry, and she coughed, reaching for her wine to wash it down. Etienne chuckled.

“Have you something you wish to say, my love?” He asked her. Hadiza’s eyes narrowed and she turned her gaze from him.

“If you fear violence done against you,” Etienne said, “you need not. It is not my way to torture or mutilate those who cannot defend themselves. However, I have heard tell of your prowess and cleverness, Lady Trevelyan. Did you think your Commander would spirit off into the night to warn the others? Even now, I am sure he is not even aware of what it was he thought he heard or saw.”

Hadiza frowned, uncertain. What did he mean?

The meal was served, and they ate. Hadiza decided a fast of resistance would serve her very little. She would need her strength for whatever was to come, and she trusted that Etienne’s chevalier code would keep him from slipping from gentleman captor to ugly brute. Still, he was Orlesian, and Orlesians had made a literal art out of being able to lie, and so she did not trust to hope.

“I will allow you one question tonight, if you wish.” Etienne said. “But afterward, your silence returns...at least until my associate’s plans are well underway.”

Hadiza felt something warm at the hollow of her throat, and she gasped, relieved to hear her own voice.

Almost immediately she turned to spit a curse at him in anger, and her voice dissolved again.

Etienne clucked his tongue at her. “A wasted opportunity, Inquisitor. Shall I give you one more chance at civility? You’ve been fucking the Red General long enough to have picked up some of his coarse language, clearly.”

Hadiza bathed him in a withering glare. Etienne raised his goblet in a mock toast.

Her voice returned.

“What is the point of all of this?” She asked through gritted teeth. “Why go through this to get me alone?”

Etienne sat back in his chair.

“If I told you you would not believe me, Inquisitor.” He said. “Is that your final question?”

Hadiza said nothing, keeping her gaze defiant and furious. Etienne shrugged and Hadiza felt the warmth in her throat again as her voice was stolen from her.

The lump in her throat had nothing to do with it.

* * *

Samson had known powerlessness in his life, Maker knew. He had been a templar, collared and chained to the will of the Chantry, the will of scheming Knight Commanders and Chantry Mothers. He had been a beggar, relying only on the slim goodwill of strangers kind enough to toss a silver his way. He had been a mercenary, little more than a bond-slave, truly, working to keep food in his belly and the dust in his bloodstream. He had been a general, with a leash long enough to give him the illusion of freedom, but still bent to the will of one of the most powerful beings he’d ever seen.

All of this paled in comparison to the inextricable chains called _love_.

It drove him a little bit mad, when he realized why he had taken Captain Odette’s offer. He took it because he needed the coin--would need the coin--and to be left penniless and with no mount would have rendered his mission a failure. Which begged the question: just how much did Odette know?

He took the coin purse.

“Smart man.” She said, smirking in triumph.

“Just tell me what you want.” He said sharply. Odette raised her brows, then laughed.

“Straight to business, Messire Luc?” She laughed again. “Well then, if you insist. Speak with my First Mate, Priam regarding your new role as a temporary crew member of _The Deliverance_. He will also discuss ship etiquette and meal times and what’s expected of you.”

Samson fixed her with a withering glare, but any humor and warmth Odette exhibited was replaced by the tempered steel beneath. She stared him down and Samson felt the oppressive weight of _something_ in her gaze. He felt his blood chilled with an old fear, an old hatred.

“You will address me as Captain or Ma’am in the future, Samson.” She said and her voice was brittle and clipped, sharp enough to cut his throat. “Do I make myself clear?”

Samson was silent, determined not to let her humiliate him now that he’d made a deal in exchange for his passage.

“I wasn’t asking.” Odette said, and the warning note in her voice promised more than Samson was willing to endure.

“Yes, ma’am.” He muttered insolently. Odette did not smile, but there was a grim satisfaction in her gaze and she jerked her chin toward her cabin door.

“I will speak with you later regarding the details of your very specific assignment for me.” Odette said. “You are dismissed.”

Samson, with no choice, left.

When he stepped into the brutal and watery sunlight, he was taken by surprise to find himself surrounded by water on all sides. In his conversation with the Captain, _The Deliverance_ had been unmoored and was underway. Val Chevin was still beyond his grasp, not until he completed whatever mysterious mission Odette drafted him for.

He found Priam at the forecastle, speaking with a group of sailors. As if sensing him, Priam turned, then dismissed the sailors to their duties. Samson had been at sea before, though not for long. Sailors had a reputation for laziness and drunkenness, but here in their element, they were the most efficient and focused group of people ever seen. They scrambled along the deck, in the rigging, moving with purpose, hauling barrels, buckets, swabs, and spare beams for mast repair. It was a lot, and Samson knew it was only a matter of time before he got underfoot.

“You going to gawk all day, or you going to do some work?” Priam demanded. Samson stared at him.

“I’m begging your pardon, serah,” he said snidely, “but I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to be doing. Captain wasn’t exactly upfront or clear on that.”

Priam let out a bark of derisive laughter.

“Ain’t her job to give you a job. That’s mine. Come with me before you get underfoot.” Priam walked briskly, with a sailor’s rolling gait, while Samson walked awkwardly behind him, trying to adjust to the gentle pitch and roll of the ship. Priam went below to the mess decks, and Samson was surprised at how immaculately clean the galley was. A few cats lounged on the tables, dozing in contentment, or watching his movements.

“For the rats.” Priam explained. Samson made a face; he understood. Cats were considered a good luck familiar on any sea-faring vessel, as well as a practical deterrent against the pests aboard the ship.

They went deeper into the galley, where a larger man was in the kitchen stooped over a large pot.

“Tiberius!” Priam called. “Your potato soup tastes like darkspawn shite, no use keeping up appearances.”

“And yet you’re first in line to be served, Priam, memory serve. So either you enjoy my soup, or you have an acquired taste for darkspawn excrement.” Tiberius’ voice was deep and pervasive, and Samson was reminded, oddly, of Corypheus in that moment. There was something grave about the cook, who looked upon Samson in full, stepping into the light from an overhead lamp.

He was qunari.

Samson immediately froze. Memories, many years buried, clawed for purchase in the wavering present, and he was suddenly in Kirkwall. The city choked with smoke and human fear, the fires burning, the bodies in the streets, killed by spears or worse. Samson heard qunlat in the streets, heard the sounds of magic being slung to and fro as the Champion and her companions fought their way to the Viscount’s Keep. And him...he had fled the fighting, turned tail and ran like a coward to hide in the darkness of the docks until the qunari had given chase and followed Hawke to Hightown.

He had never been so afraid in his life.

“Oy!” Priam’s voice was a sharp hook, snatching him from the apparitions of his memories, punctuated by a cuff to his head. Samson felt his heart hammering in his chest, felt his sweat making his shirt stick to his body. He swallowed.

“Aye.” He responded, his voice hoarse. Both Priam and Tiberius were staring at him, and Tiberius’ gaze was shrewd beneath the heaviness of his white brows. Samson swallowed again.

“You’ll be working for Tiberius here in the galley for the duration of your stay.” Priam said. “Mind your manners. He’s a qunari, but he’s not like the ones you’re probably used to. They call his kind Tal-Vashoth. Somethin’ about not being about that qun they’re always on about.”

Samson nodded. He knew the word, had heard plenty enough before. Even so, his impression of qunari whenever he met them had always ended in violence.

“He’s not needed at present, Priam.” Tiberius said, “Let the man rest at least.”

“Bah.” Priam spat. “Captain’s orders are he’s to be put to work. He’s one of us, now.”

Tiberius fixed Samson with a heavy stare again, but Samson could not say if he was examining him or merely expressionless.

“He is not one of us.” Tiberius said. “He is merely a passing breeze until Odette catches her prize.”

Priam made a face.

“Not our business, Tiberius.” He said sharply. “Give him something to do. He doesn’t hit the bunk until we all do.”

Tiberius heaved a dubious sigh, but waved his large hand in acquiescence. Priam snorted and left Samson alone in the galley with the large qunari cook.

“So, you are the one they call the Red General.” Tiberius said, and noted Samson’s flinch at the name. He laughed. “You need not fear anything from me. The little killing spirit informed us of who you are. Did you never wonder why it was this vessel she chose for you and not something more...reputable?”

“You’re raiders.” Samson said simply, then swore quietly under his breath. “Figures she’d stick me with you lot. No respectable vessel would take me otherwise.”

Tiberius chuckled. “You’re smarter than the rumors say. But I suppose not all the rumors are to be believed. I expected you to be taller.”

Samson’s lip curled. “Aye, and I never expected to find an outcast qunari slaving away in the kitchens for a swindling pirate captain.”

Tiberius’ eyes blazed. “I am no one’s _slave_!” He snapped, making Samson go on edge, wishing for his damned sword. Sensing his unease, Tiberius calmed himself and returned to stirring the pot.

“I have been no one’s slave for many years.” He murmured. “In any case, the Captain has requested you work for me, but I get on well enough on my own, and I’m particular about the organization of my kitchen. I don’t suppose it’s too much to ask if you’ve ever scrubbed a pot a day in your life, is it?”

Samson grinned. “More than you know, and a great deal more than I’d like.”

Tiberius smirked back. “Good. Then after dinner you’ll have work to do. For now, enjoy the downtime while you can.”

Samson glanced around. The kitchen was spotless, dishes neatly put away, food organized, everything about the kitchen was cleaner than he’d ever seen a kitchen. The only filth was the floor, covered in dirtied straw to prevent spillage and slipping. Samson looked for somewhere to sit.

“I’d like to stay here, if you don’t mind.” He said at last. Tiberius gave a droll shrug of his shoulders.

“Enjoy. It can be rather dull down here.”

“How do you manage?” Samson asked. “You qunari aren’t particularly chatty, memory serve.”

Tiberius laughed good-naturedly. “Then you know precious few qunari, because if anything, we are incapable of shutting up.”

Samson grinned, finding a crate lashed to the deck to sit upon. He felt naked with no blade or shield, but Tiberius did not give him cause to fear as other qunari did, but he did make him uneasy. And so he sat there in strangely companionable silence with the first qunari he’d met that did not immediately try to kill him.

Later, a bell chimed in the distance, and Samson became intimately aware of the rush of water against the ship’s hull. It reminded him how hollow the ship was, and that he was at the whim of the ocean in addition to the irascible Captain Odette. It humbled him to say the least, and he took a strange pleasure in knowing that at least in this, he was not alone in his insignificance. Even a great qunari like Tiberius was at the whim of the ocean’s current, the whim of Captain Odette, who commanded the loyalty of her men without question and good-natured ribbing.

When the evening meal was served, Samson ate alone while the sailors crowded the mess deck and the galley, armed with wooden bowls and spoons. They chattered amongst themselves, a polyglot mix of tongues including Rivaini, Samson recognized the accent. He had regulated that the raiders were the sole province of Rivain but he saw amongst the crew a mix of races and nationalities. Fereldan, Marcher, Orlesian, Tevene, even Ander. He saw elves and humans speaking as if they were equals, saw Rivaini and Orlesian speaking with no animosity amongst them, and Marchers and Fereldans cracking jokes at one another’s expenses.

Someone rattled a cup of dice and a cheer went up. The sailors banged their cups on the mess deck tables, eager for a game. Samson finished his stew, decided that it was passable enough to be a grade above darkspawn shite, and watched the sailors gamble.

“Downtime is over.” Tiberius said, his deep voice rumbling so much Samson nigh shivered out of his own skin. When Samson looked up, almost sullen, Tiberius motioned toward the kitchen. Samson understood; there were dishes to be cleaned, and an entire kitchen as well.

Samson grunted and set about the work of cleaning everything. At first, he resented it, being forced to scrub pots like some recruit who’d been caught out after bunk hours. He scrubbed vigorously, frowning when the filthy water splashed into his face. Moving with careless grace behind him was Tiberius.

“Pots go here,” he was saying, and Samson paused to pay attention, “pans here. And don’t just stack them still wet. We’re not savages. Dry them with this cloth. After you’ve done the dishes, scrub the rags out and hang them on this line by the porthole.”

Samson frowned, then understood. Tiberius was unwontedly anal about the cleanliness of his kitchen, and Samson wouldn’t dare gainsay him. He reasoned that Odette had let him keep the coin that would have paid his passage, but in return he would earn his keep by crewing for her during the duration of the voyage.

“Any idea when we’ll be in Val Chevin?” Samson asked. Tiberius paused in his scribbling on his tablet to look up.

“Val Chevin?” Tiberius laughed. “By Andraste you’re mistaken. We’re on course to Swindler’s Cove, a few leagues out from Jader. We’re not due to hit Val Chevin for a fortnight.”

 _She could be killed by then._ Samson’s mind began to send him into a panic and he called upon every shred of templar discipline and temperance he could to will himself to calm and stillness...at least outwardly.

““I’ve got to speak with the Captain.” He said evenly. Tiberius raised a bushy white brow and snorted derisively.

“Good luck with that.” He said, “If you can bend the Captain’s ear, you’d be the first.”

Samson pulled a face. “And Priam? Seems he’s bent her ear well enough.”

Tiberius chuckled. “Priam is the First Mate and her second in command. He has her ear out of necessity for the running and care of this ship and its crew. You are a disgraced templar and war criminal begging favors for passage across the sea.”

Tiberius’ gaze was shrewd, amused. Samson felt himself unnerved.

“Who is she?” The qunari asked. Samson turned back to his duties. Tiberius chuckled again but asked no more. Samson heaved a quiet sigh of relief and resolved to his work.

It took a great deal less time than he expected, and considerably more time than he wished. By the time he was finished with the dishes and rags, he had to wipe down the tables, sweep and swab the deck, and afterward snuff the lamps save for the ones used to light the passageways throughout the ship.

“Not bad for your first day aboard.” Tiberius said. “But this was only a half a day. Tomorrow, we’ll see if you can keep up.”

“I’m no spring youth,” Samson spat, “to be treated as if it’s my first sea voyage.”

Tiberius gave him one of his shrewd looks.

“I’d wager not, but you’re not exactly in your prime, either. Still, I expect to see you here just before first bell.”

Samson tried to remember at what hour of the morning the first bell of a ship sounded, then swore at himself when he couldn’t. His memory was not as sharp as it could have been. Another mistake in the abuse of lyrium he’d enacted when he thought the world would end along with his miserable life.

“Get some sleep, Samson.” Tiberius said. “Whatever Odette has planned for you will require you at your best, of that I have no doubt, and I’ll not have my hide keel-hauled on account of dulling her newly-acquired weapon.”

Samson stirred at that but did not dare ask what he meant. Instead, he stumbled, still unable to find his sea legs amongst the gently roll of the ship within the waves, and found his bunk. He collapsed into the hammock and it wasn’t until that very moment he realized just how exhausted he was. Not only from the night’s work, but from the journey itself, and the deep rooted anxiety of not knowing if Hadiza was safe or not. For all that he hated Orlais, he could not deny that if Ariadne was concerned enough to go to such lengths to get him involved, then it must have been dire. It would not have been the first time she had intervened to bring him to Hadiza’s side when she needed him most.

He was too tired to smile when it dawned on him as to why that was.

_You sentimental--_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters ain't getting shorter, sorry. That's the way the story goes. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> Leave one if you with me. ✌


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine attempts defiance, and...and then there's Samson. Trigger warning for in-game racial slurs, antiblack racism, and a lot of misogyny. Sorry in advance.

Everything about Etienne was dangerous, Hadiza decided.

From the moment she accepted his seemingly earnest invitation, he had laid his bait and trap with utmost care. The intricacy of his plot was beyond her, and made the machinations in the Winter Palace the previous year look sloppy and unrefined. She had to applaud his resourcefulness, stripping her of her voice was one of the surest ways to keep his sinister plan a secret. And Etienne was not so foolish as to think Hadiza would not pen a missive to her companions.

The first time she tried, he had not hurt her per se, but there was a clear threat as he tossed the hastily-scrawled missive onto his desk before her next to a dead messenger raven that had clearly been shot with a crossbow.

Hadiza stared at her trembling handwriting and despaired, but she fixed Etienne with open defiance, making a promise of her own should she ever be freed.

If she thought to find some semblance of hope and sympathy in his servants, she was disabused of the notion as it was they who reported every activity to their master. She scowled as they went through her belongings, handling her one-of-kind La Fienne pieces with a carelessness better suited for rough-hewn dockworkers than servants in an Orlesian household.

Her weapons and armor had been confiscated, leaving her only with her clothes. She was not allowed so much as a single scrap of paper, ink, or a quill. Hadiza searched thoroughly, hoping that by chance they’d overlooked something she could use—anything, truly. She let out a soundless breath of frustration when she found her chambers stripped of any and all aids to communication. She was left with little more than her clothes and the essentials for bathing, and precious little else. She surmised that the choker was what would be used to control her, and so she went to her vanity to take it off.

The clasp was gone.

Unable to scream, Hadiza tugged at the choker, grunting from the effort, tugged at the heavy emerald pendant. Nothing worked—the gem was set in silverite, and the clasp…Maker had it fused when she put it on? She wanted to laugh to keep from crying, but tears would not serve her, and she lacked the magic to reduce the swelling in her face from crying. Instead, she sat and tried to think.

The others had to know by now that something was amiss. Cullen had heard and seen what she had, and she knew he’d only left to give truth to the lie that they were merely attempting to rekindle an old flame and not trying to cover their asses. He was her only hope of getting the word out.

The servants came to collect her for meals, and Etienne…she hardly saw him, really. She supposed he concocted some way to explain her disappearance. Like as not, Orlesians were buzzing about them being lovers, sequestered away from the city in his chateau, now a love nest. It sickened her to think of having ever entertained the mere thought of a future with him. To think, she had almost given into the lie!

The shadow of a flock of birds passed across her window, and she heard dogs barking in the distance. She walked toward her balcony doors and found them locked. With a grunt, she kicked at the doors until the handle and lock broke.

Out in the open air, Hadiza smiled, grimly satisfied that in this at least, she had won. She glanced down, saw Etienne riding toward the stables. She saw him glance up, and she knew he was frowning, displeased that she was outside without his permission.

Hadiza raised her hand to him as if to wave, and made a rude gesture instead. Satisfied, she turned around and went back inside. If she could not remove the accursed choker, then she would make life difficult for him until he freed her. Part of her knew she should have been trying to find out what or whom was behind this plot, and what plans they had in store for her, but she was angry.

Hadiza went for the heavy bookend on her bookshelf. In her anger and frustration she thrilled at the weight of it in her hands. It was granite chiseled in the shape of a lion’s head, painted with gold paint. She went to her door and began to work at the handle, lifting the heavy rock and banging on the handle. She wanted to cheer and laugh when she saw the wood beginning to splinter, the intricate filigree and crown molding buckling and warping under her onslaught.

The handle began to dislodge until finally, with a crumbling sound, it buckled under the final blow. Hadiza kicked the door open, panting as she stared Etienne in the face. His mask was off, and his eyes were banked with rage.

Hadiza felt her heart in her throat. She had seen the look of men who decided they were going to kill, and Etienne had become that self-same man. Hadiza gripped the bookend firmly. If she had to be a savage and cave his skull with it she would. For a moment, they merely looked at one another. Who moved first was fate’s choice, but Hadiza sprang just as Etienne spilled like liquid silk--how did a man his age move as no man could?--his arm dipping low as he stepped into her lunge.

His hand secured easily around her throat at the same time his fist struck her in the ribs, and Hadiza struggled, the bookend dropping heavily onto the carpet from nerveless fingers as Etienne backed her against the wall.

“You would do well to remember this the next time you deign to destroy my house, Inquisitor. My orders were to ensure you were contained, but there are things worse than death you can endure until my associate has need of you.”

Hadiza did not show fear; never would she fear a man who made such base threats.

She spat in his face, and he spat back without missing a beat.

“Perhaps your living arrangements are too lenient. Perhaps a change in venue will change your temperament.”

Hadiza struggled still but Etienne was not only stronger, but outclassed her entirely. When she moved he adjusted his hold and footing to ensure she was always off balance, like a child taking their first steps. His grip was like iron fastened around her arm as she was hauled to a different room. Hadiza would never forget that room, for it was different than the rest. She took a deep breath and reached for her mana.

Etienne was faster, and pulled her as she discovered her magic. Her winter’s grasp spell dissipated as she was hauled into a room of stone and velvet. She knew what kind of room it was, she had seen its like before, and as he fastened the manacles around her wrists and ankles, Hadiza despaired in frustration. Etienne stepped away from her and she went after him, held in rigid check by the length of chain that bound her.

“I tried to be lenient, Inquisitor.” Etienne said, smoothing back his hair. Clearly restraining her had been more work than his calm demeanor belied. He licked his lips. “I would that you did not have the temperament of an unbroken horse. It is the wrong situation for such insolence.”

He laughed at his own wit and Hadiza snarled at him, silent and enraged.

“You will, of course, be treated with respect and courtesy as you are due,” he explained, “but should you attempt another episode like the one you just put me through I will show you just what I do to creatures whose temperaments remain disagreeable.”

Hadiza sickened at the thought that she and her army had fought alongside this man. And as he left, shutting the door behind him to his sharp-edged boudoir, Hadiza hung her head and tried to scream.

* * *

Samson was run ragged, of that Priam made sure; and if he thought Tiberius would be lenient, he was sorely mistaken. The old qunari brooked no room for error, tardiness, uncleanliness, or excuses. Samson was up before the first bell rang, and did not rest until the final bell of the night. Despite all of this, Samson had never felt better. The sea air was good for him, and he filled his lungs with it whenever he was up on the main deck, and no where else would he ever see sunrise and sunset in full glory than out to sea.

In truth, the work was plentiful, but it was no worse than what he did at Skyhold. His agitation stemmed more from the urgency of his mission than anything else. And Odette had still not summoned him to her quarters to discuss what his ultimate purpose was for this voyage. And so Samson kept his head down, and minded his duties. Tiberius had been right, of course, he was not one of them, nor would he ever be. His presence here was a transient thing, like a fog before the sun dissolved it, or a storm passing over a swathe of land.

The second week, Odette summoned him.

He’d been swabbing the lower decks, and securing anything not lashed to the deck when the runner came for him. He made his way upward to the main deck and to the captain’s quarters.

If he had thought her casual before, it was nothing to compare to how she looked, now.

Odette was not a tall woman, but what she lacked in height she made up for in sheer presence. Samson entered her stateroom and immediately felt exposed and small before her. Everything about the room was an echo of the absolute authority she commanded on her ship, from the meticulous placing of various accoutrements to the confidence in which she commanded her crew without having to lift so much as a finger. She was going over charts and maps on her desk when she looked up, her eyes shrewd, even the blinded one.

“Before we reach the Cove, I’m going to explain to you what your purpose is.” She said simply. “But first, I have questions.”

Samson crossed his arms and shifted his weight. “Aye?”

Odette eyed him, amused. “Just how deep does that templar training run? You are, at your core, warrior-priests, I know, but the extent of your abilities is shrouded in mystery.”

Samson knew what she wanted to know.

“How powerful is the mage you’re hunting?” Samson asked, deciding he’d had enough. He had no patience for word games. He wanted her to be out with the truth and be done with this messy business. Odette’s amusement withered away, leaving only a wintry glare behind. Samson was unmoved. He had agreed to this foolishness for one reason alone, he’d not stand for her intimidation tactics.

“How do you know I hunt a mage?” Odette asked.

“Because no one asks for templars specifically unless they want mages rounded up or killed.” Samson said evenly. “And you already asked about my abilities when we met, Captain. You wouldn’t have cared if it was just another sword arm you needed at your disposal.”

Odette lifted her chin, grinning, showing gold teeth.

“Well, well.” She said, “Guess you’re smarter than your legacy has led the world to believe, after all.”

Samson resisted the urge to spit and so sucked his teeth instead.

“I’ve still got a few wits left to me.” He said flippantly. “Now, to business.”

Odette went back to her maps.

“He calls himself Blackthorn,” Odette sneered as if the name disgusted her to speak it, “but I knew him as Balor Guildenstern. He was a powerful mage from one of the Circles in the Anderfels before the rebellion.”

Samson said nothing on that matter, and continued to listen.

“Balor came to me seeking asylum when the war began, and anyone who has sailed the seas knows how expensive it can be to have a battlemage aboard. In exchange for shelter, safety, and a cut of the profits, Balor was happy to do the work of a battlemage for far less than the usual rates.”

Odette poured herself a drink, and did not offer Samson any. He understood the message clear enough, and said nothing.

“Of course, you know how the story of mages goes: they always want more than what they’re given.” Odette laughed. “I told him he was free to pursue his arcane studies so long as he summoned no demons and did no blood magic. At first, it went well enough, but after his tenth sea battle with a rival raider, he was wounded. They had a stronger mage, nearly wrecked us and marooned us on a lonely isle in the midst of the Amaranthine.”

“Let me guess: he used blood magic.” Samson said, and it was his turn to be disgusted. No matter what he’d seen or done, he was still too much of a templar to abide such barbaric practices. Odette nodded sagely.

“Not only that,” she said, “he sacrificed three men from my crew to do it. I wanted him in the brig for execution but you should know there is no stone or iron powerful enough to contain a mage...not without a templar’s help.” She looked into her glass, bitter with the memory. Samson suspected it had more to do with the fact that she could not execute Balor more than anything.

“I tried to reason with him at first, but something about blood magic makes mages crazy and unreasonable. It’s not demons, but it’s something...like the cracks in a mirror. The reflection isn’t quite right.”

Odette looked up at Samson sharply. “He wrecked my ship, killed half my crew, left me for dead half-blind, and ran. I’ve been hunting him ever since. It’s taken me years to assemble the right kind of crew for this, but I know where he is, and I know he can be beaten if I’ve got a templar on my side.”

Samson understood her need for vengeance more than he cared to admit. He understood the banked fire of righteous fury, of directing that anger to a singular purpose until one fair burned from within to without with it. He understood how maddening it could be when one was so close to achieving it and yet so far. He also knew how consuming it could be, blinding one to all that could and would go wrong if they focused on only vengeance.

“Alright, then.” Samson said. “Did he have a phylactery?”

Odette scoffed. “Shattering it was part of his initiation into my crew. Trackless seas mean exactly that and more: no one should have been able to find us.”

Samson sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“And you’re sure you know where he is?” He asked. Odette nodded and Samson envied her that surety. She knew, and he could see it in her; she was sick with the need to exact her vengeance, to dispense her own blackhearted justice upon the man who took her eye and nearly took her livelihood. Samson could feel it, a rage that was years old, but still burned hotly and brightly. Somehow, Odette had learned to live within absolute control of it.

He envied her that.

“I most assuredly do.” Odette said. “He’s at the Cove where we’re headed.”

“And what makes you think he won’t recognize a templar on his trail, if he’s as powerful as you say?” Samson asked hotly. Odette smiled.

“You’ve hunted mages before, haven’t you? I’m sure you know how to be discreet.” She set her glass down after taking a sip, her lips wet with liquor. Samson realized in that moment that he could use a drink.

“I never hunted mages.” Samson said crossly. Odette raised a brow.

“Never? Was that not the very duty of the templars? Or do you mean to tell me you never dragged a mage to the Circle even when they begged you not to?”

Samson was silent. Guilt blossomed in him, a corpse flower from a rotten seed he had nurtured for almost a decade and more. Maker but he had hunted them, hadn’t he? He did nothing to stop those young children from being dragged from their homes, did nothing to assure the parents their children would not fling themselves from the parapets in despair years later. And in those days, Meredith’s boot had not yet descended upon his neck.

He was guilty of it. He was complicit. Like in all things. It made him sick, but worse yet, he knew if pressed, he was exceedingly good at mage hunting. For that’s what the others would call it, as if it were some amusing sport.

“When we reach the Cove, do what you were made to do, Samson.” Odette said. “I’ve left standing orders with my crew to ensure your ruse as this...Jean Luc, remains. Be discreet. I want him cornered before I kill him.”

Samson saw the hardness in her mismatched eyes and almost pitied Balor.

* * *

Etienne surprised Hadiza by having her summoned to dinner.

Hadiza tossed her head, shooting him an insolent glance from across the dining table. She noted that somehow the menu consisted of dishes to be eaten exclusively with spoons. Even the dessert courses were like that, and she wanted so badly to take the garish centerpiece on the dining table, the one with a rearing charger and a leaping lion, and shatter it upon the polished floor.

It was a bit telling that her only line of defense was to ruin his house.

Hadiza was mid-swallow when he returned her voice, but she did not speak right away. She did not threaten him, nor promise pain or punishment or retribution for his actions. She did none of these things because she still did not know enough to understand his role as anything but her jailer.

She wished Samson were here. But she was partially glad for it that he wasn’t.

“Where are my companions?” She asked, her voice slightly hoarse from disuse. Etienne waved his hand dismissively.

“Safe in the city. They are so very happy you and I have requested privacy for this courtship. Madame de Fer especially. She seems to think you have made the right decision.”

Hadiza sucked her teeth. “I would that I had declined your invitation as I originally intended. I must commend you for dragging Visage du Soleil into this. I would not have come otherwise.”

Etienne raised his wine goblet in a salute but said nothing. Hadiza rolled her eyes, but inwardly she swore.

“Tell me, Inquisitor, am I really so repugnant? I have not lain a single hand upon you to harm you, have I?”

He laughed at her withering glare.

Hadiza wanted to spit, so she angrily scooped the soft, spongy cake into her mouth to keep from doing so. It was really good cake, and she wished the serving was much larger than what she was allowed. For a long while, Etienne and Hadiza sat in silence, until Etienne signaled the waiting servants to clear the table. Hadiza scarce finished her cake before her plate and utensils were taken from her. She stood, and Etienne stood for her. It felt disgusting, this dance they did, adhering to the decorum and tenets of honor and nobility when he was so nonchalant about holding her hostage.

“To what end, Lord Piedmont?” Hadiza asked, folding her hands in front of her demurely, despite the chained manacles. She made of herself the image of calm, knowing the demure velvet gown she wore made her look the innocent damsel. “What were you promised for this?”

“A great deal more than Her Majesty has given me for keeping to my loyalties.” Etienne said absently, and then grimaced when he realized his mistake. Hadiza made no show of having caught it, and silently congratulated herself on remembering how to remain poised and implacable when facing an opponent.

“And for whom are you working? Visage du Soleil is merely a contracted middleman,” Hadiza surmised, “so someone higher and with deeper pockets than you is behind this, truly.”

She laughed, almost derisive. “Comte you were better off siding with the Inquisition rather than embroiling yourself in the perfidious scheming of your betters.”

Etienne swung his gaze to her like a scythe, and she did not allow herself the victory of a smile as she watched his throat work in a suppressed rage. She wanted him to slip, wanted him to breach that damnable chevalier code and give her a reason. If she could subdue him without killing him, she would be grateful, but she had a feeling he would not give her the opportunity. Still, the air fair crackled with potential energy waiting to be unleashed.

“Your tongue has grown sharp these days past, Your Worship.” Etienne sneered, his voice colored with indignation and maliciousness. “I daresay the Black Room becomes you. It has certainly improved your wit.”

“And dulled your charm.” Hadiza said drily, and coughed when her voice dissolved again, the heavy emerald at her throat warming to the point of discomfort. She winced, shifting uneasily. The warmth grew hot, and she opened her mouth in a soundless cry, tugging at the pendant as the Comte watched her unmoving, like a hunter watching his dogs tear apart their prey.

Hadiza knew he’d intentionally burned her skin, and she glared at him sullenly. Her eyes held the promise of a pain only a mage could inflict should she ever extricate herself from the bindings he’d placed upon her. Etienne dipped his head in a duelist’s nod accepting the terms of the unspoken challenge.

“Tomorrow we will go to Val Royeaux and walk the Promenade.” He explained. “You will be given the use of your voice of course, but should you say something that displeases me I will take it from you.”

Hadiza stared at him, and for a moment she understood Samson perfectly. His rage, which boiled his blood and gave him purpose. He had fixated the source of his rage in an effigy of Andraste. Hadiza had never hated someone as much as she hated Etienne de Piedmont in that moment. His betrayal of loyalties, and his brazen move to hold her hostage. She vowed, in that expedient moment of white-hot fury, that she would run him through herself when this was over.

Empress Celene would not countenance this attempt on her life, not when she had Hadiza to thank for still being able to warm her throne. Etienne seemed to sense the rage rolling off of the Inquisitor in veritable waves, and he stood taller, confident in his unassailable position while he held her at a supreme disadvantage. Her rage was futile, and he feared her less than even Samson had when in the throes of red lyrium madness.

“You are beautiful, Inquisitor,” he said, still smiling, but his eyes reflected the hinterlands of a winter colder than anything Hadiza could summon with magic, “for a backwater Rivaini bitch, at least. But you would have never been a Comtesse in Orlais even if this hadn’t been a farce.” He snorted derisively. "Imagine the gossip. I'd have better luck with one of the knife-eared whores from the alienage."

Even though she knew it to be false, knew the entirety of her trip was but a charade for political gain, his words still stung. She felt the lump in her throat again and longed for her magic so she could call down a single lightning bolt and end this stupidity. Her rage drained from her as her damnable heart appeared on her sleeve. This too gave Etienne pleasure to watch, and again she wondered why.

When she returned to her room, the lock and handle had been repaired, and she could see where it had been for the gold paint and the molding was still missing.

The door was also locked from the outside, and when she investigated her balcony doors, she found them locked as well. How had they worked so quickly? And why had her companions not come for her?

She found out why, days later.

First, Etienne took her from the Black Room and had her reinstated to her old chambers, and her chains removed; Hadiza smirked when she saw the door had been repaired with a silverite handle and lock. She knew there was no way she could break it, but she knew it must have cost the Comte a small fortune to have it replaced, and so she claimed a small victory, promising that when she got out of this she would do far worse than cost him a few sovereigns.

After she was served breakfast—a sumptuous meal within an even more sumptuous prison—she heard a commotion in the halls below. Etienne’s voice was angry, a bit frustrated based on the clipped tones, but Hadiza wanted to weep with relief when she heard _Vivienne_ coolly deflecting his anger and insisting on seeing her. He must have relented for soon after, Vivienne made her way to her chambers, a servant in tow brandishing a large ornate gift box festooned and bound with gold-threaded ribbon. Hadiza noted that the box bore the seal of Remy La Fienne; stylized filigree with his initials wound within the ornate framework. She smiled, guessing at what it was.

“Your mask for the party is completed, my dear.” Vivienne said, “And I wanted to personally deliver it to you myself. I do hope you haven’t grown complacent in this little love nest you and the Comte have made for yourselves.”

Hadiza balked. “ _What_?!” She cried.

Vivienne smiled smugly, as if she knew something Hadiza did not, which in this case, was the Maker’s honest truth.

“Oh don’t be coy, dear, you know you’re not very good at hiding your feelings. You were seen all about the city, fawning over him, and now you’ve been in his chateau for days without coming out. Have you…fallen in love with him?”

Hadiza felt bile rise up in her throat.

“What? Vivienne, no! I would never. The Comte and I are merely doing this for…you _know_ why I’m here.” She knifed her fingers through her hair in frustration.

“I know why we came, yes,” Vivienne said, gesturing to the servant who set the gift box down and left with alacrity, “but I know circumstances can and do change. Comte de Piedmont can be charming when he wishes to be.”

Hadiza could not believe what she was hearing. She wanted to scream, and she almost did.

“He’s not charming at all!” She said instead. “He’s a liar, a cheat, and lacks honor! He keeps me locked away here for some purpose I cannot guess at, and he has somehow managed to strip me of my powers!”

Vivienne’s brow furrowed. “My dear those are grave and admittedly wild accusations. The Comte is one of Empress Celene’s favorites, and has been nothing but a gracious and generous host since our arrival. You would do to enjoy his company. Maker knows you’ve been keeping worse company of late.”

Hadiza let out an incredulous laugh.

“What has he done to you, Vivienne? You would have never trusted his intentions so easily a week ago! Why the sudden change?”

Vivienne frowned. “Hadiza! Do not presume to speak for me or you will find yourself short of much-needed support. Do not let your newfound favor with the Comte lead you to delusions of grandeur. This is Orlais, after all.”

Hadiza resisted the automatic ‘yes ma’am’ and gritted her teeth until her jaw hurt. She said nothing else, biding her time and letting Vivienne sweep about the room, pushing back curtains, and looking as jovial as if Hadiza had just given her news about pending nuptials. It irked her in a way that made her palms itch. Whatever ensorcellment Etienne had employed to bewitch her companions, Hadiza had no means of unraveling it until she knew the components that comprised it. She felt lost, adrift in a sea of shadowy notions floating beyond her reach. She was keenly aware that the clues may have been staring her in the face but she lacked the knowledge and wisdom to discern them. The pattern was, at the moment, too vast, so she was forced to wait.

“Oh, open the box, darling.” Vivienne turned swiftly enough that it startled Hadiza and she momentarily forgot that the woman was under a spell. Hadiza glanced warily at the box, and sighed moving to undo the ribbons.

“Gently,” Vivienne admonished, “not like a child tearing apart birthday presents.”

Hadiza shot Vivienne a momentarily insolent glare but tugged gently. When she lifted the box’s lid, she smelled powdered perfume and caught sight of cream colored lamé fabric, and a card bearing the insignia of Remy’s atelier. She peeled the fabric back and gasped.

The mask was brilliant.

“Oh.” She whispered, lifting it carefully from its nest of crinkled paper and soft velvet. “ _Oh!_ ”

Vivienne smiled knowingly.

“Is it not brilliant, darling? Remy always had an eye for the Game and its ever-shifting currents. It’s why I won’t trouble any other atelier for my signature pieces. It was his idea to make the henin my signature headdress.”

Hadiza momentarily forgot the spell and smiled.

“His?” She asked slyly. “Or yours, madame?”

Vivienne laughed, low and throaty, but said nothing more. Hadiza tilted her head with a quick smile before surveying her mask again.

“I must be going darling,” Vivienne said, “I’m to dine with Lady Fontaine this evening. She’s been dying to hear news from outside the empire, truly. Poor dear has been laid up with a sickness for the better part of the year.”

Hadiza knew Vivienne was ensorcelled, could feel it in her marrow; irrespective, the thought of her leaving her here alone made her heart ache with a pending loneliness. She was, in essence, behind enemy lines, with naught left to her but cunning.

Vivienne gave Hadiza a kiss upon each cheek before departing. When the door clicked behind her, Hadiza sighed and set the mask back in the box. She noted the card, and picked it up, brushing her fingers over the thick, raised flesh of the emblem embossed on its surface like an artful wound. She turned it over, reading the note in elegant script.

And then she smiled, wider and more genuine than she had in a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say here. Brace yourselves, I guess. Leave one if you with me. ✌


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the princess devises a plan, and Samson stumbles upon a strange suspicion.

Samson had been on sea voyages before, but they had always been short and simple. You got on the boat, it crossed some water, and you were there. Not only that, but he’d always been there as a guest, not a crew member.

A sailor’s life was not as idle as he had originally thought.

There was, in fact, much to be done. Samson had learned to sew during his time in the Order—no recruit or knight got by without knowing how to fix a ruined uniform or even patch a gambeson, after all. Still, sewing clothes and the like were one thing; stitching and repairing sails were another. For one, it was a very precise technique that was required in order to ensure the sail was properly patched. For another, it was damned time-consuming.

_But_ , Samson thought as he finished up on his assigned sail, _at least it gets me off my feet and I can enjoy the ride._

By the end of the day, the cove was sighted, though with no lights to guide them in, Samson could not figure out how the crow’s nest had even spotted it. He was below finishing cleaning up after the midday meal when he heard the thin cry of the lookout from the crow’s nest sighting land. He raised a brow but continued his duties. He knew how to mind his own business. Tiberius worked quietly behind him, taking inventory of the ship’s stores of food. He’d done so everyday since they’d gotten underway, but a port meant an opportunity to resupply, and Tiberius was not one to waste it, Samson learned.

“You ever been to a raider port, Samson?”

Samson deliberated on a lie, and decided, instead, to err on the side of caution.

“Wouldn’t know. Never traveled far outside of Marcher waters.” He admitted. It was partially true. He was no sailor, to know legitimate ports from smugglers’ dens and coves, but he knew seediness when he saw it, so he wagered somewhere in that ten years of mercenary work he’d likely been smack dab in the middle of one and never knew it.

Tiberius murmured in agreement. “I suppose you wouldn’t. I ask only because I know the Captain has advised you to mind yourself while we’re in port. You’re…not exactly inconspicuous.”

Samson grinned, stroked his scruffy chin and laughed.

“What? You telling’ me my old mug’s gotten that famous, eh?”

Tiberius’ brow was heavy with gravity. “I’m saying that your face is more synonymous with a certain Chantry faction than it is with your templar roots, Samson. Smuggler’s Cove is a place where lawlessness abides, yes, but there _are_ rules. The Inquisition is not exactly welcome within these parts.”

Samson almost protested that he was not part of the Inquisition but the image of him raising his shield to protect Hadiza from a fatal blast of fire from Corypheus flashed in his mind. The minute he’d done that he was as good as hers, wasn’t he? He laughed at himself.

“You’re right. It’s why I grew this out.” Samson tugged at his beard. “Worked for a friend of mine, figured it was worth giving it a go myself.”

Tiberius chuckled. “I suppose it’ll do. You certainly can’t pass for Orlesian.”

Samson shrugged. It may have been he would not need to. He hoped it was thus. He had no interest in trying to mimic an Orlesian accent, and he lacked the range of experience to fake wordiness. Why Ariadne had constructed that damnable profile for his ruse was beyond him. Then he remembered where he was supposed to be and groused even more. The sooner he got Hadiza out of Orlais the sooner they could go back to Skyhold and he could tell her in no uncertain terms that he was never doing anything of the sort again.

Mostly because he never wanted to leave her side.

Samson wanted to spit; he hated love so much.

There was a call for all hands to man their stations as the ship prepared to navigate toward the hidden port. Samson glanced upward, his expression pensive but inquisitive. Tiberius nodded.

“We’d better go above. Navigating the Dragon’s Teeth is treacherous work.”

Samson frowned. He’d heard the name before, but he forgot from where.

They went above, and found sailors scrambling to their positions. Samson stole a glance to the quarterdeck and saw Odette standing erect as a girl of seventeen, her wide-brimmed tricorn hat plumed with a fluffy white feather, billowing in the strong breeze that filled the sails like a breath from heaven. Her face was stern, and she kept both eyes ahead.

“Drop down to half-sails!” She barked, and Samson was surprised at how far and strong her voice carried over the din of the sea and the wind. Immediately, sailors worked to furl up the sails, jibs, and yards, leaving only the main topsail and fore sail at full capacity. The ship slowed, rolling and pitching aft as the wind powered the only sails available, finding a steady balance fore and aft. Samson turned his gaze ahead, and saw why the region was called the Dragon’s Teeth.

Stone jutted treacherously from the sea’s tossing, tortured breadth, and at first Samson wasn’t sure how Odette planned to navigate it, for as the sea rolled, he saw that some of the sharp stone was longer than the waters belied, only to be swallowed by the waves again. To even attempt to navigate it would be suicide at the very least. Samson found himself sending a prayer to the Maker and Andraste both to guide them, and forgot that he was angry with them. If he were to commend his soul to this treacherous voyage, he’d die an Andrastian.

It was all he knew.

“Shit your knickers, yet?” Tiberius asked, as they secured themselves with lifelines to the railing. Samson swallowed visibly but said nothing at first.

“She’s a mad, raving lunatic if she plans to do this.” He murmured, so soft his voice was almost snatched by the wind. Tiberius laughed uproariously.

“That’s putting it mildly,” he said, “but you’ll find no finer captain in this or any sea.”

Odette barked orders to the helmsman, who steered with care. Even from his vantage point, Samson could see the young man was scared, his gaunt cheeks hollower than usual, his eyes bright with fear and determination both. The ship creaked as it turned, slow and easy, and Samson saw that Odette was weaving through the rocks. He had thought the ship too large, but it seemed to be just small and agile enough to turn, cutting through the water smoothly. It seemed as if the entire crew was holding its breath.

“How many times have you all done this?” Samson asked and Tiberius shrugged.

“Many, but the sea is not always this kind. She is a capricious bitch, truly. It is why Odette is the only captain to have charted a safe route through it. It takes a capricious bitch to know one, I suppose.”

Samson could not argue that.

“How’d she do it?” Samson asked, genuinely curious. Tiberius said nothing and Samson suspected it was more from respect than lack of knowing. He would have to ask Odette himself if he wanted to know more.

For a while, it seemed as if the Dragon’s Teeth would offer no bite, and Samson offered silent thanks to the heavens for it. He could make out the fuzzy, almost ephemeral specter of land beyond, and he prayed and hoped they cleared the treacherous rocks soon.

“Alright, steady as she goes.” Odette called, and Samson saw the helmsman hold his position. The ship glided, and Samson had to keep from leaping from his skin when he felt the jolt as the gaff scraped the side of one of the dangerous outcroppings. He heard the crumbling sound of scree splashing into the water.

“Easy.” Odette warned. “Take her gently two degrees to port.”

The ship turned, and the gaff eased away from the outcropping.

Samson could not have said where and when the fog came, but came it did, and it seemed as if he could see nothing. The Dragon’s Teeth loomed in the wreathing fog, ominous shadows amidst the ghost that surrounded them. Tiberius nudged Samson and he glanced sharply at the qunari as he presented him with two small balls of beeswax.

“Stuff this in your ears.” He said curtly, and Samson saw he was already plugging his own. He frowned, but followed suit, making a note to ask questions later. When he glanced around, he saw that everyone was stuffing their ears, save for Odette, who took the helm.

The outcropping of rocks seemed to grow more clustered, more narrow, and Samson watched, deaf to the heaving breaths of the sea, ignoring the spray of cold, brined water on his face. He could feel something on his skin, a sort of electric thrill, the kind he got when Hadiza was unleashing her magic. It did not sit well with him, and he could feel it in the other sailors, as if they were waiting for something. Odette’s face was a mask of implacability, her eyes set on the blurry shadow of Smuggler’s Cove on the horizon.

The wind summarily died, and from how suddenly it happened, Samson knew it was a preternatural occurrence. Was this the work of a mage? Had Balor somehow been alerted to their coming and sought to sink yet another ship of his huntress? Samson set his jaw. Every moment he spent on this accursed ship was moments he should have been spending riding toward Hadiza. He would thrash Ariadne something fierce if he survived to return to Skyhold. And if he didn’t survive, he hoped his ghost would haunt Ariadne for the rest of her days, the duplicitous bitch!

Samson was about to demand Odette take him back when he thought he heard singing.

Odette’s face was locked in a rictus of discomfort but she sailed on through the fog. Sailors in the prow worked lanterns to guide her through the treacherous path as the singing grew sweeter. Samson wanted to take the wax from his ears, wanted to enjoy the song, but something in him stymied his weakening resolve. He knew the preternatural anywhere. The singing would not have him.

Odette’s nose began to bleed as she turned the ship’s helm portside, following the ghostly lantern floating in the midst. It winked out, and she turned to align the ship centerline, until a lantern floated starboard, and she turned again. Blood congealed along her top lip, dripping onto her coat. Samson saw a drop of blood splash onto the rude wood of the helm.

He moved to go to her but Tiberius stilled him, shaking his head.

“You’re no good to her right now.” He warned. “None of us are.”

Odette continued to sail. The singing grew more insistent, more seductive, and Samson, with his stuffed ears, felt himself grow sick with a longing with which there was no name. He wanted to go to the voice, wanted to wrap the source in his arms, wanted, and wanted, and wanted without knowing why. It was beginning to drive him mad.

Odette continued to sail, her face locked in a grimace as she kept her sights on the blur of islands that loomed closer in the fog. Samson knew, in the sea of his own burgeoning madness, that they were almost to safety.

Until he saw it. Them.

They appeared as little more than flashes of scales amidst the waves, spines and spiked crowns cresting above the foam, but when Samson looked to the Dragon’s Teeth, he saw them in full.

Amidst the outcroppings and jutting rocks were dozens of the creatures of myth, turning out in droves to sing as one. He’d seen crude drawings of them in books in the Circle, half woman, half fish, but none of the cursory readings he’d done on them did justice to what he saw.

The sirens--the mermaids--were indeed half-human and half-sea creature. They lounged on the rocks, churning the souls of men with their bewitching voices, voices he knew would haunt him long after he sailed beyond the reach of their webbed claws and long, sharp teeth.

He could not be certain, be he saw no noses on the vaguely humanoid faces on these creatures, only a wide slash of a mouth, filled with rows of dagger-like teeth. Their eyes were large, taking up much of their head, and as black as forest pools in the darkness, but in the fog, they glowed a sickly, preternatural yellow, like lanterns to lure sailors further in to dash themselves upon the rocks.

All traces of longing and desire should have fled, or so Samson thought.

Looking upon these creatures should have broken the spell, should have rendered him immune to their abilities, and yet they continued to sing, and Odette bled for it as she continued her course. Samson saw a few of the sailors edging toward the railings, eager to leap to their deaths but for the promise to hold the source of those clarion voices in their arms.

One of them dove into the waters, and he saw them when he looked over the railing, their tails strong and sure in the current, rising on sea foam to turn their luminescent gazes upon him.

“ _Raleigh…”_ Their voices sang, and Samson felt himself straining against his lifeline, felt Tiberius’ sure grip on him to keep him from leaping overboard. Nowhere else—from no one else—had his name ever sounded like _that_. Even looking upon the monstrous faces, he felt a desire beyond his scope of comprehension. He needed to jump, needed to dive into the water. He _needed it badly_.

“Hold your resolve, templar!” Tiberius snarled. “If you don’t I’ll kill you myself!”

Samson shook his head, digging his fingers into his ears to push the wax firmly within. But the singing had soaked him like ocean spray. It was in his bones, and he knew it would be many, many nights before he was completely free of the haunting melody. Reluctant and relieved, he turned away from the creatures, struggling to remember his purpose, clinging to the brightness of the one woman who needed no song to hold him. It helped…barely.

Only the female sailors seemed capable of sentient thought and reason, working in tandem to ensure Odette’s path was clear. All of them were bleeding through the nose, but none of them faltered.

Samson understood why Odette was so respected. She chose her crew well and with decided purpose.

He also noticed none of the women made a move to harm the sirens, nor did the sirens advance on the ship to overtake them. The men called to them in slurred voices, drunk from the spell the song wove around them, but none of them leapt, and those who tried were hauled away and restrained.

Samson tried to remember Hadiza’s face but the song fought his memory for dominance. His memory faltered. Hadiza could not sing to save her life, so what did this creature hope to accomplish?

But magic as old and wild as a siren’s call cared precious little for love or reason. The only objective was to lure foolish sailors in and devour them. Samson wondered how many bones lay at the bottom of the sea, strewn amidst broken wreckage of ships run aground and sunk. The Dragon’s Teeth housed a thousand and more meals and creatures, and Samson vowed to never leave land again so long as he lived.

The voices began to fade, the song began to feel like a distant ache in his heart and mind. The fog cleared, and soon Samson made out pinpricks of lantern light in the cove of an island ahead. The stretch of sea between _The Deliverance_ and Smuggler’s Cove was so calm and short Samson knew trouble was coming for them.

Odette gave the order when they were clear of the Dragon’s Teeth, and the men unstopped their ears. Immediately they went to work, dazed but alive, and they tended to their female companions, grateful. Samson saw Odette get relieved by Priam, who took the helm while she went to her quarters. Samson unknotted his lifeline and followed her. He knew he’d be in for a thrashing but he had to say or do something.

When he walked in, Odette was on her knees, wretching into a wastebin. It came out, viscous, black-blooded, and foul. She looked up just long enough to see Samson, and snarled.

“Get the fuck out of here!” She barked. Samson didn’t move at first, and watched as she climbed to her feet, reaching for her sword, but Samson knew her sickness--whatever it was--made her clumsy. She came at him, and he sidestepped her easily, noting with pride that he had grown accustomed to the movement of the ship in the water, or rather, gained his “sea legs” as the sailors called it.

He caught Odette as she stumbled, and held her at arm’s length.

“I will have you flogged and keel-hauled, you imbecile!” She hissed at him. Samson nodded.

“Just as soon as you tell me the truth.” He muttered. Odette narrowed her eyes, then pushed him away roughly. Samson stumbled, surprised, but undaunted.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

* * *

Hadiza had never been one who found it difficult to smile, even in Orlais. But today... _Maker_.

Etienne was the quintessential gentleman in every respect, and she was greatly aware of the ooh’s and ah’s of the passerby as they walked the promenade together. He had not permitted her to dress in her men’s attire, and instead had her wear something that she knew Remy La Fienne would have gutted her for even wearing. But how else would Etienne show off the heavy emerald he’d ‘gifted’ to her? Hadiza was sick with a desire to harm him or at the very least humiliate him. Behind her mask, her fury smoldered.

Beneath her gilded smile, her tongue was a silent clapper in the bell of her mouth.

“Do try not to be so stiff, darling,” Etienne said, “we are lovers, not enemies.”

“How anyone could even picture you as a lover is beyond me,” Hadiza said tightly behind her smile, “and I pity whatever poor Orlesian girl is saddled with you and your depraved desires.”

Etienne’s hand gripped her elbow so hard it made her wince. Hadiza glared at him from behind her golden mask, saw her reflection distorted in the polished curves of his own.

“Depraved?” Etienne laughed low, then leaned in, aware of the eyes upon them, making as if to kiss her neck. “My dear, I am a night with a virgin compared to what I’ve heard you and the Red General get up to.”

Hadiza hesitated, and unbidden the mention of Samson called up memories, all of them good, so very good. Hadiza felt desire in her blood like a cadence, and she smiled.

“You wish you knew what was true, don’t you?” Hadiza turned her head, made to look as if she were returning his intimate kiss. They were lovers, and yet so far from anything of the sort.

“I do not take someone unwilling into my bed.” She whispered, and Etienne’s lips grazed her ear.

“No, but you have made a name for yourself by bedding your enemy.” He murmured and Hadiza hated the shiver that coursed her skin from the sensation. She rejected her body’s reactions in favor of cold anger.

“I wonder,” he continued, guiding her to a shaded alcove of fresh roses, “could I possibly be next? The chemistry between us is undeniable.”

Hadiza made to break away, and found her voice gone, her neck on fire from the emerald as whatever foul magic was trapped within began to burn her. Etienne pulled her close, smirking.

“Did he find redemption here?” He asked, tracing the brow of her mask. “Did you look at him with such hatred when he promised to deliver your head to his master?”

“Did you hope to find redemption?” Hadiza asked, her voice returning at his whim. “For I am not known for giving it.”

Etienne chuckled. “No, what I do, I do for myself. I brook no illusions about who I’ve...gotten in bed with, so to speak.”

“You would destroy the peace we’ve worked for for power.” Hadiza said contemptuously. “I thought to credit Orlesians with more imagination.”

Etienne tilted her face toward his.

“Your Worship, power is its own reward. There has been no war, no conflict, no vengeance wreaked upon this world that did not end in a quest for power.”

Hadiza hated to admit, but he was right.

He kissed her, and Hadiza let him because the Game demanded it. And she hated to admit, but it was pleasant. His lips were soft, his breath sweet with mint, and he knew what to do with his tongue. Hadiza lost herself in the moment, and let herself imagine that Samson kissed her in full view of the Orlesian peerage rather than this man who held her captive with dark magic and machinations shrouded in shadow.

Her body yielded to the kiss while her heart starved, yearning for someone leagues from this terrible den of serpents.

Etienne broke the kiss and she saw for a moment, a falter in his arrogance. He had enjoyed it too, she surmised, though not for the reasons he likely expected.

“So this is what he tastes…” He murmured thoughtfully. “All that untutored ardor, all of that passion. Truly I have underestimated you, Inquisitor.”

Hadiza said nothing, wanting to spit in his face, preferably acid.

“Come.” Etienne said, his eyes distant. “I’ve a meeting to attend. Preparations for the fete and the premiere of the ballet and all that.”

Hadiza wondered how he could be so nonchalant about the prospect of murdering her. There appeared to be no malice in it, save for the times he sought to wound her pride with words. Other than that, Hadiza guessed his stake in all of this lay in the profits.

“Why?”Hadiza asked him softly as they walked toward the coach. “Why are you doing this? To what end?”

Etienne said nothing as they entered the coach. Out of sight of prying eyes, Hadiza eagerly put distance between the two of them, sitting across from him. Etienne gestured out of the window and the coach rumbled off, trundling through the streets toward Visage du Soleil.

“I will tell you, Inquisitor.” Etienne said. “Just before you draw your last breath.”

Hadiza rolled her eyes. “You are not going to kill me.” She said. “If you were, you would not have wasted time and money with this charade.” She waved her hand dismissively.

“Just admit that you are doing this out of some misguided vengeance and have done with it.”

Etienne stared at her. “I said nothing of vengeance, Inquisitor.”

Hadiza laughed. “You did not need to! You act on behalf of someone else, as I have said. Someone with deeper pockets, someone with more power than you who has promised you more should you join them. Someone powerful enough to command the guildmaster of Visage du Soleil. Someone with access to infernal magic that can bind me. Do not try to deny this is not an elaborate ploy for revenge, Comte.”

Etienne smiled thinly.

“I never bound you.” He said. “Not with magic.”

“Only the Game.” Hadiza whispered. “You are bound to it same as I. It is why I am still alive.”

“And why I do not need to saturate everywhere we go with mana-suppressing magic. You would not be so brazen as to strike me down with a storm when you could start a war with Orlais for doing so.”

“Your life is not worth going to war over,” Hadiza said, “but it might have been had you not betrayed the Empress.”

Etienne tilted his head. “Who said I was betraying Her Majesty?”

Hadiza felt her blood run cold. In all her guessing and deducing it had never occurred to her that the person with deeper pockets and more power could have been the sovereign of Orlais herself. Hadiza had been so sure that Celene being indebted to her would ensure that Orlais would not dare move against her without turning the eyes of the throne upon the offending party. Hadiza had been so certain that Celene valued her life enough to realize the value in Hadiza saving it.

Maker’s Breath she had been a fool.

“You take some time to land, but there you are.”

Hadiza did not need him to take her voice, then. She sat in her cold and dawning dread, and wished for a moment that she had defied everyone, that she had brought Samson with her because Etienne would not have gotten this far had the Red General been there to snarl in his face and cut him down like the duplicitous and conniving viper he was.

The coach rumbled to a halt in front of Visage du Soleil’s headquarters. Hadiza felt her dread mounting. Whatever they planned to do with her could not happen until the night of the premiere, which was as yet still three weeks away. She felt her dread recede like a tide, and in its place rushed the blood-tide of fury.

How _dare_ they.

She steeled her will, her spine, and called upon the cold and righteous fury she’d felt in every battle she’d ever fought. She had not waded through a sea of bloodied and broken bodies to battle for Thedas’ salvation only to have one of her own allies plan a coup. She wondered in those moments what Vivienne, Ariadne, and Leliana would do.

Leliana. She would have to know about this plot, unless it was so deep-laid she did not catch it. She could request as audience with the Divine. They could not deny her that. They would not dare.

Hadiza graciously took Etienne’s arm and asserted herself. She felt the slight halt in his step as his surprise registered, but they ascended the steps, the picture of the matched couple. Hadiza said nothing, and the barbs she would normally have stuck in the skin of his ego died on her tongue, turning to ash as her anger blazed within her.

She wondered, in that moment, if Etienne could be turned from this path. She hoped he could because the only other alternative was to make an example of him.

_I should have let her die that night_. Hadiza said. _But I would have had to put another snake in her place. At least she is a snake Vivienne knows. Maker just raze Orlais from existence. Give it back to the damned elves if you must but obliterate this worthless country!_

In her anger, Hadiza barely noticed Basquiat standing in the main vestibule, waiting for them. Hadiza noted that Basquiat wore the uniform of the harlequins she’d battled in Halamshiral a year ago, but she did not doubt for a second that they were a great deal more formidable than those who’d fallen beneath her onslaught. If it came to it, Hadiza would have rather avoided fighting the waif-like dancer whom she suspected and knew they were much more than that.

“Inquisitor.” Basquiat greeted, betraying none of the perfidy Hadiza had erstwhile been subject to. Etienne inclined his head.

“Is the Director in residence?” He asked. Basquiat turned their masked face to the Comte.

“Of course, my lord,” they said, “if you would follow me. We are currently setting up the stage, testing the designs.” They turned, walking toward the theatre proper with a willowy grace Hadiza envied. She and the Comte made their way, trailing behind. Hadiza was relieved that at least Etienne’s grip on her elbow had relaxed enough, but she did not dare test the limits of her leash when in unfamiliar territory.

Nasir was in his office, speaking with the lead dancer in hushed tones. Hadiza wanted to curl her lip because Nasir sounded so gentle and fatherly.

“Be sure to work on that back leg extension,” Nasir said, dismissing her, “it would not do to have the audience think the Inquisitor a weak character.”

He met Hadiza’s steely gaze and smiled.

“Your Worship.” He greeted, his tone sickeningly saccharine. Hadiza did not return his smile.

“Director.” She said, her voice void of inflection. Nasir did not stop smiling and gestured to the old and weathered couch.

“Please,” he said, “be seated, my lord.”

Etienne sat, and Hadiza hesitated before sitting next to him, ensuring there was a bit of distance between. He made no move to stop her, and instead kept his attentions on Nasir, who gave Hadiza’s choker a cursory glance.

“Enjoying the lover’s token?” He asked and Hadiza shot him a withering glare to which Nasir merely smiled in turn. She looked away, ignoring the warming of the emerald, even as it began to sting. Etienne would not enjoy his collar on her long, she promised that much.

“In any case,” Nasir said evenly, “my lord preparations for the premier are nigh complete. We’ve a few more dress rehearsals left before the performance. I trust you have kept up your end?”

Etienne leaned back on the couch, arms outstretched, languid and confident.

“Invitations have been sent out, and there’s not a soul in the realm who will not want a chance to be at an event with your group’s name engraved on the card. I would that I could throw such fêtes frequently, but this is as far as I am willing to stretch my social credit.”

“And your coffers, I’d wager.” Nasir said, amused. Etienne’s lips twisted, but he said nothing. He turned to look at Hadiza.

“Darling, why don’t you go and amuse yourself watching the rehearsal? Nasir and I must discuss sensitive matters.”

For a moment Hadiza could scarce believe it, so she stared at him. He dared to address her so intimately, knowing the ruse had long since dissolved when she discovered his treachery? For a moment she contemplated reaching for him and scratching out his eyes. But she thought of a plan.

“Is there a Chantry within?” She asked Nasir. “Or must I go to the Grand Cathedral?”

Nasir frowned, perplexed. “There’s no Chantry worship in Visage du Soleil, unfortunately. Most of our members worship in the privacy of their chambers or attend the services at the Cathedral.”

“I’m sure you can contemplate the Maker and His Divine Will without the need for a Chantry, my dear.” Etienne drawled. Hadiza frowned at him.

“Do not presume to tell me how to worship!” She hissed. “Nasir, if you would please have my coach take me to the Chantry? That would be wonderful.”

Nasir nodded. “As you will, Your Worship.” At Etienne’s protest Nasir glared at him, quelling his dissent instantly.

Thus, Hadiza was escorted outside and into her coach. The Chantry was not far, and she could see it from her window, its elegant spires and parapets rising above the low buildings of Val Royeaux. When the coach rumbled to a stop before the steps, Hadiza made a show of utter calm as she stepped out and then ascended. Her captors were duplicitous, but they would not dare cross the Divine and bar her from worship.

Which was precisely what she needed.

Once inside, Hadiza took a moment to allow herself to be taken aback by the site. The Grand Cathedral was lauded across Thedas as one of the most beautiful houses of worship in Thedas. Domed ceilings with elegant frescoes of scenes from the Chant of Light decorated the place. Golden candelabras were alight, giving the entire atmosphere a soft warm glow. The colonade stretched before her, lined with lanterns. The air was redolent of incense smoke, and from a distance she heard the Chant sung in soft but clear tones.

Despite everything, Hadiza momentarily felt at peace.

She walked along the colonnade, cast in the shadow of mighty pillars, her shadow jittering along the walls and columns, her footsteps—quiet as they were—sounding like the rumbling steps of an approaching dragon. A Chantry Sister passed her, and Hadiza reached out to stop her. The girl looked at her, startled. Hadiza gave a warm smile, and opened her mouth to speak.

And found her voice gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still chattin'. Leave one if you with me. ✌
> 
> Also, if y'all are like scared to comment or something, don't be. I love when y'all comment on the shit you like, ask me questions about shit you like or are unsure about, or whatever. I'm not too proud to admit that comments are really what keeps me going and pursuing fic writing as a hobby because if I just wanted to write for myself I'd never publish to begin with. So if you feeling some type of way about commenting, don't. Unless you say something blatantly offensive, I'm not liable to say much in response save for expressing my gratitude.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things happen a lot at a very fast pace.

“How many lies are you going to tell before you tell me what shit I’ve stepped in, Captain?” Samson demanded, watching as Odette sat heavily in her chair, a drink already in hand.

“You will forgive my bluntness, Ser Samson,” Odette said, taking a swig of her whiskey, “but it’s none of your fucking business. All that matters is you complete the task I’ve given you.”

Samson frowned. He had had enough.

“I’m jumping ship as soon as we pull in.” He said. “I don’t need this.”

Odette chuckled darkly, but said nothing. She raised her glass to him in a salute that was more derisive than anything she could muster up vocally. Samson’s cheeks went red with anger. As he turned to leave, Odette sucked her teeth.

“Leave if you like, but I can guarantee you’ll find no ship that will take you into sovereign waters.” She said. “They’d much rather collect the price on your valuable head than aid you in your…foolish errand, knight.”

In his mind, he saw Hadiza, and in his mind, he foolishly thought he could save her. Did she even need saving? With no word from Ariadne or any of her agents, Samson was as blind to the situation as ever. He knew nothing, and the date of the premier loomed ever closer. But if this mage Balor had summoned the sirens to guard what he guessed was no Smuggler’s Cove but his _fortress_ , Samson would not live to see Hadiza again.

 _Given the circumstances, is that such a bad thing?_ He asked himself, and then laughed darkly because in the eyes of the world: no, it was not. But he wanted to see her again, at the very least to know she was protected, that she was safe.

“You sailed us into enemy territory.” Samson said simply. “You told me he was crewing for another captain.”

Odette laughed, licking the remnants of blood from her teeth.

“He was, and as far as I know, still is. But we heard a rumor he was consolidating power for himself. Trying to start his own council of captains on this side of the map. He doesn’t want to answer to Llomeryn’s ilk.”

Samson chuffed. “Do you?”

Odette laughed again. “Fuck no, but Rivaini waters are where we’re less likely to run into the Orlesian armada, or be chased and harassed by those Fereldan frigates. They’re tiny but those bastards can move.”

Samson’s lip curled. “Why not gather a force strong enough to beat Balor yourself? Why me?”

Odette set her glass down. “I tried that. And you know what happened?”

Samson did not ask but he could venture a guess. None too few of the wrecked ships were of recent make. It only served to confirm his belief that the sirens were bound to those treacherous rocks by Balor. How he’d managed to collar so many was anyone’s guess and only gave testament to his power.

Samson hated to admit it, but the mage had to be neutralized or killed. And then he promptly felt sickened at the thought of framing it that way. It sounded too much like how Meredith spoke of mages, or even Cullen. He had never wanted to think of mages as anything but people with abilities. When backed into a corner, they had options others didn’t, but that made them no less human, didn’t it?

But Balor was collaring _sirens_ to guard his damned doorstep, summoning demons, and sacrificing his own crew members for blood rites. If anything, the man sounded like a textbook example of everything Meredith hated about mages.

And Samson hated himself for seeing her point. Balor had to be stopped.

“So.” Odette said. “You understand, then.”

Samson nodded slowly.

“I’ll need time,” Samson said, running his fingers through his hair, “and I’ve got none. And I’ll need my armor and weapons.”

“No can do.” Odette said. “You do it quiet, and I strike the killing blow.”

Samson resisted the urge to snarl, and instead gritted his teeth, his tongue poking at the hole where one of them was missing.

“I’m not a damned assassin!” He snapped. “I’m not about to go in hunting a mage unarmed with not so much as a damned vambrace for protection. I need my gear. I don’t wear the sword anymore, and if anyone asks, I won the shield in a dice game, wouldn’t be too far from the truth for me.”

Odette nodded. “Very well, I’ll reinstate your gear, but if you cross me I’ll mail your head to the Inquisitor myself.”

Samson smirked. “Get in line, Captain. You wouldn’t be the first to want to do so.”

Odette shook her head but said nothing. Instead of formally dismissing him, she waved her hand absently. Samson turned to leave, but hesitated.

“What was that all about…with the sirens back there?”

Odette looked up at him but said nothing, her expression pensive. Whatever secrets she held, she kept, and Samson pried no further, leaving her to her thoughts as he returned to the main deck.

No one questioned him when he went below to the galley, and he found Tiberius already peeling the last of the potatoes in preparation for the evening meal. _The Deliverance_ bobbed safely, born upon the sea’s suddenly gentle breast, gliding toward the harbor. Samson watched from the galley’s portholes, straining to get a glimpse of the Dragon’s Teeth, but seeing only the calm sea. Who knew such a treacherous thing lurked so close? It was no small wonder ships gave the area a wide berth.

It was a miracle that Odette had managed to chart a path through it to the harbor.

“Don’t try to unravel her mystery, templar,” Tiberius rumbled from his stool, “you’re like to go mad if you do.”

Samson sat on a stool opposite Tiberius, taking a peeler and helping.

“Wasn’t trying to unravel a damned thing.” He said. “Would be nice if she were more honest about her intentions, though. I’d at least like to know how big a pile of shit I’ve stepped into.”

Tiberius said nothing at first, but then, “She needed a templar. That’s all you need to know.”

Samson frowned. “A long time ago that might have mattered. It don’t much matter, now. She doesn’t need a templar, she needs a templar’s abilities. I can provide one, not the other.”

Tiberius fixed him with a heavy stare.

“Are you saying the two things are mutually exclusive?”

Samson looked up. “What? No...I’m saying…” He sucked his teeth in annoyance. “I’m not a templar anymore. Haven’t been for a long while.”

Tiberius chuckled. “Then what are you?”

Samson had no answer.

They peeled potatoes in silence.

They made port after sunset, and despite the run-in with the sirens, mooring the ship and lowering the gangplank went off with no accidents or mishaps. Those sailors who were not on watch were allowed to disembark to go carousing, and those on duty were charged with helping to resupply.

Samson saw the bill and was relieved that he was part of the group allowed free reign. He tallied up what he needed personally, and sewed his coin purse into his coat. When he disembarked, he immediately felt strange and could not name the reason. Tiberius was on duty, and thus, not allowed to leave the ship, but Samson could get on well enough so long as he kept his mouth shut and his blade close.

For all that, Smuggler’s Cove was not as sinister as he pictured or imagined. It was, in fact, little more than a large shanty town with a centralized market. There were districts of course, but Samson saw none of the obvious divide between rich and poor as he’d seen in other places. Here, everyone lived in their own shit and made do with what they had. It was strangely comforting to know that everyone in Smuggler’s Cove was no better off than the other person.

He passed a few places that were well-lit, but for the most part, the districts were subsumed in a soft, sparse glow of lantern light, enough to see, but naught else. He followed the clamor of cheers, singing, and clanging to the district where the taverns, inns, and brothels were quartered. The place stank of human sweat, of cloves, of cinnamon, of cheap, distilled perfume, and rotgut wine. Laundry hung low and dripping from lines strung up between the buildings, and upon closer inspection Samson saw the place was constructed entirely out of old ship lumber likely salvaged from wrecks washed up from the Dragon’s Teeth.

The place had character, he’d give it that, but he had no idea where to begin his investigation searching for Balor. In this sea of human filth and debauchery, Balor could be anywhere.

 _Not true_ . He chided himself for forgetting. _Man’s a Circle mage. He’d not last in a place like this. He’d set himself up somewhere nice and clean. Circle mages were always so damned high maintenance._

He chuckled to himself, feeling as if half the battle was won. He just had to tackle the difficult task of finding the ‘nice’ part of the town.

 _Somewhere high._ He thought, stopping to adjust his breeches. _Likely away from the town entirely._

“Fancy a tumble?” A voice drawled and Samson looked up, wondering how he must have looked. There, loitering just outside one of the brothels was a half-dressed doxy. He raised his brows. Her hair was already disheveled, and she stank of sweat, perfume, and alcohol. In his younger years, he would have leapt at the chance to bury himself in a whore. These days, he couldn’t focus without seeing _her_ face. Maker, love was truly a beast to be reckoned with.

“No thanks, lovely.” Samson said, “Maybe next time I’m in port.”

The whore tsked in annoyance, but then Samson had an idea.

“However, might be something else you can do for me.” He said and the woman looked him up and down, smirking when he produced a silver coin. She came closer.

“I like the sound of that, serah.” She drawled. “What can I do for you tonight?”

Samson swallowed, suppressing memories of home.

“Looking for a man.” He said and she barked with laughter.

“We’ve men aplenty inside if that’s your fancy, serah.” She laughed. “You definitely fit their...type.”

Samson frowned. “Not right now I don’t. Listen, looking for a man...calls himself Blackthorn.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. The whore’s face, already splotched with color, drained to white and her expression became fearful. She backed away.

“Stay away from me.” She said sharply. “And don’t go whispering names that’s like to get me killed!”

Samson wanted to pursue her but knew it was a lost cause. He had his answer, however.

Balor was on the island.

* * *

Hadiza frowned as the Chantry Sister attempted to read her handwriting.

“You wish to speak with Most Holy?” She puzzled out. Hadiza let out a sigh of relief and nodded. The Chantry Sister frowned, disappointed.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Your Worship. Most Holy departed on a visit to Halamshiral not three days prior. She’s not due to return until the premier of the ballet.”

Hadiza opened her mouth to scream. When no sound came, she closed it. She snatched the parchment away from the woman to scribble hastily beneath her other note. The Chantry Sister read it and smiled sadly.

“If it’s not troublesome, why not just speak?” She asked. Hadiza hesitated, then touched her throat delicately, shaking her head sadly.

“Is it…” The Chantry Sister’s eyes darted, before her voice dropped down to a whisper, “Is it contagious?”

Hadiza rolled her eyes but shook her head. She gestured, hoping the damned woman got it or grew tired and left her alone. As far as Hadiza was concerned, her usefulness had ended.

“Ah.” The Sister said, “I see, now. I suppose living in those cold mountains all the time was bound to get someone sick. Even the Herald of Andraste. I do apologize for the absence of Most Holy, Your Worship. I understand the two of you were close during her old life.”

Hadiza wanted to say that Leliana had no more abandoned her old life than she had abandoned being a mage but remembered that her voice was trapped and instead made a face. The Sister seemed oblivious, and continued to chatter.

Hadiza finally sighed and walked away. When she departed the Chantry she found Etienne waiting for her by the coach. She did not need to see his face to see that he was smug beneath his mask.

“Did you enjoy your worship, Inquisitor?” Etienne asked as they entered the coach. “I hope you found it...enlightening.”

Hadiza coughed as her voice returned.

“You knew she was gone.” She guessed. Etienne turned his hands palm-up.

“I knew she was not in the Grand Cathedral, yes. I suppose you would not have been able to communicate a message even if she were. They are highly protective of Most Holy. We lost the last one in a terrible accident, you see.”

“She is only Most Holy because I put her there.” Hadiza sneered. “As your Empress is only so because I willed it. You would do well to remember that.”

Etienne said nothing, but his lips were upturned in that smug smirk Hadiza had grown to hate.

“Yes, yes, I know the story.” He drawled. “But one never got by resting on one’s laurels, now did they?”

Hadiza cared little for decorum, wallowing in her anger and bitterness at having been thwarted.

“Orlais seems to be getting on just fine by doing that very thing.” She shot back. Etienne laughed.

“I enjoy our little talks, Your Worship. Truly, even if I did not take you to wife, you would have made a stunning mistress.” Etienne took that opportunity to nettle at her pride. “Imagine! I’d be just as defiant as Grand Duke Bastien! Keeping a Rivaini witch in my bed. Though, I must admit, Madame de Fer has a refined charm you lack.”

Hadiza said nothing, fixing him with a weighted glare.

“You lack the stamina to handle a wife and a mistress, let alone a woman of my caliber.” Hadiza said with a toss of her hair over one shoulder,  feeling reckless. Etienne snorted.

“In that you may be right,” he laughed, “I also lack the funding for a woman of your overly expensive tastes. And it can’t be said I spoiled my mistress more than my wife. Tell me, what do you plan to do when your Inquisition ends and you go back to being some backwater noble from the Marches?”

Hadiza leaned back, determined to not let him get under her skin, but he was there, poisoning her blood and making her delirious with rage.

“Killing you is high on the list.” Hadiza said casually, leaning back in her seat in an attempt to mimic the same ease and nonchalance as the Comte. “Though I wager I’ll accomplish that long before the Inquisition is disbanded.”

Etienne’s mouth grinned. “Oh? What’s this? Talk of killing from the renowned pacifist, Inquisitor Trevelyan? The skies will fall and the earth will crumble. Have I truly enraged you so?”

“I would not call it rage.” Hadiza said simply.

“And here I thought no one was beyond saving to you.”

Hadiza hesitated. She felt herself under heavy scrutiny, and she came back from her haze of anger into her senses. He was prodding her for information, but she wasn’t sure what he wanted to know specifically. He had not asked about politics, history, or anything. For all intents and purposes, he was merely carrying on a conversation and trading banter.

“They aren’t.” She said quietly. “But you, my lord, have done nothing worthy of consideration for redemption. Your service to the Inquisition notwithstanding, what you are currently engaged in is literal sedition and treason.”

She glanced out of the window, watching Val Royeaux fall into the distance as they made their way back to the chateau.

“Make no mistake, when the Empress remands you to my justice--and she will for I shall give her no choice in the matter--I will try you and take your head myself.”

When Etienne did not speak, Hadiza hoped the chilling bite of her words was the cause of his weighty silence. She hoped he understood in that moment how far he’d pushed her, and that her mercy had limits. It felt good to let him know. In truth, Hadiza could not have said if she would feel that way when the time came to try and convict him. But in that moment, rumbling toward her own gilded prison, she wanted nothing more than to christen her blade with his blood and nail his head to Skyhold’s front gate. So deep was her hatred that she did not consider the other options.

“And your Red General?” Etienne asked at last. “How did he warrant being not only spared but invited to your bed? The murderer Thom Rainier? How did he plead for clemency at your feet? Or do you bed both of them?”

“You should not believe every rumor you hear, Comte.” Hadiza said drily. “It does not become you.”

“You did not answer my question, Inquisitor.”

Hadiza smiled at him but said nothing, returning to looking out of her window. This time, she did not so much as cough when he took her voice away.

She did not know the answer.

* * *

Samson did not know what to expect, truly. It was clear Balor had made a name for himself as a dangerous man, and all at once Samson felt like he was in Kirkwall again. Even the smell was familiar. Balor was in fact a blood mage, and likely employed demons to do his bidding. Still, even a dangerous man needed some sort of support or network to operate unimpeded. Samson needed to find the thread, and he had no time. He tried to call on his training, tried to remember how the templars rooted out mages who hid.

Of course, none of it mattered because he found Balor soon enough, or rather, Balor found him.

It was the second evening in port, and Odette had given Samson leave to investigate, rotating her sailors out of duty and off-duty aboard the ship. He knew they likely found this favor to be biased and undeserved and they were right, but Samson needed to finish this as quickly and efficiently as possible if he had any hopes of getting back on track.

With his search becoming fruitless, Samson fell back on old habits: he went to get himself good and drunk.

The wine, the ale, the whiskey, all of it was absolute shit, and he knew it. He’d become accustomed to the well-aged and preserved spirits the Inquisition hoarded for its own cellars, had become accustomed to tasting fine wine on full lips, and hearing whiskey promises soon fulfilled by languid action. As Samson drank, he found his thoughts turning pleasantly toward Skyhold of all places. Maker what he wouldn’t give for a run-in with that fat Fereldan lordling right about now!

Here, in Smuggler’s Cove, amidst a den of iniquity, no one sought him out to prod at his shattered pride, to challenge him, to seek vengeance.

Here, everyone’s hands were mired in blood, be it innocent or no. Samson should have felt at home here, now that he had fallen so far from grace he could not even see the glimmer of light his Inquisitor offered him. Yet, he felt more out of place here, amidst cutthroats, brigands, and thieves of all skills, than he did at Skyhold amidst the Chantry’s most faithful, amidst those who called themselves his enemy. He could not figure out why that was, and more over, he was afraid of what it would mean if he did.

So he drank, a toast to his lack of direction, his ambiguous sense of purpose, and the growing realization that his remaining years would be spent trying desperately to make amends to a world that clamored and howled for his blood. But for now, here, in this place, no one cared, and that suited him just fine.

“You look like you’ve seen better days.” A voice next to him said. Samson spared the stranger a cursory glance, found the man’s face obscured in the shadow of his hood. Here in this place, a hooded figure was not so out of place. Still, Samson found it ridiculous and conspicuous at best.

“Aye, maybe so.” Samson replied. “If you’re offering to make them better, I’m not interested. Got business to attend to.”

“And what business can be found at the bottom of a beaten cup of rotgut wine, I wonder?” The stranger asked and chuckled, a warm sound that was strangely out of place in this smoke-choked, sweat-dampened hole in the wall. Samson narrowed his eyes and hid his suspicion in his cup.

“Don’t worry about what’s in my cup.” He chuffed. “Any reason you’ve singled me out tonight or are you just friendly with everyone?”

The stranger’s smile was a blade in the darkness, and Samson caught a brief glimpse of aquiline features and eyes the color of slow tree sap before they were hidden in shadow once more.

“You are not of this place.” The stranger said. “At least, not in the sense of the others.”

Samson schooled himself to nonchalance.

“I’ve been around, just not here.” Was all he said. The stranger moved, and Samson swore the shadows breathed and followed. He felt the telltale prickling along his skin. There was a mage in the room; the stranger _was_ a mage. He did not trust to hope that it was Balor, nor did he trust to hope that Balor would come alone to face a templar. No mage was so foolish unless they were desperate.

Balor did not seem desperate.

“I know you’re here on her behalf.” He whispered and Samson felt something else along his skin. It was strangely intimate, as if Balor’s voice was a caress, it touched beneath the skin, fingers digging into the parts of him that Samson found too close to the line between his soul and his body. It reminded him of the Dragon’s Teeth, of the sirens who sang, eager to drown him beneath the waves.

“If you come with me, I can explain.” Balor continued. “And perhaps get you out of this predicament.”

Samson hesitated. The voice was felt rather than heard, and it was making him increasingly uncomfortable. He reached deep, focusing on his own power. He formed a hand, shapeless, illuminated in blue, corrupted by red, a product of both his purity and corruption. He sought Balor’s mana like a beacon, closed the hand around it, and with a grit of his teeth...snuffed the mana out.

Balor’s indrawn breath of shock was palpable. Samson wagered it had been many years since he last contended with a templar...especially one who had enough experience dealing with dangerous mages.

“You’re making a mistake.” Balor whispered, and Samson felt no echoes of the siren’s call in his blood, only the cold burn of lyrium churning in his blood as he fueled his mana suppression. Sweat shone on his brow and forehead, and he felt his heartbeat quicken. He was not as young and a vigilant as he once was, but he was still powerful. That alone gave him the strength to persist.

“Perhaps, but I’ve a job to do.” Samson said in a low voice through gritted teeth. “Let’s get moving. She’s eager to see you.”

With little choice, Balor rose slowly, and Samson saw him sway uneasily without the aid of magic. He walked with a slight limp, and Samson followed, tossing a few coppers on the bar top for the tender before escorting Balor into the open streets. For all that the place stank, going from inside to outside was remarkably refreshing. The air was slightly fresher, a blessing of the crosswinds blowing through from the sea, and Samson was able to hold his ability longer with his chest filled with the brined air.

He led Balor toward the location Odette had given him outside of the city. As they walked, Balor talked. Of course he did. He was exactly the kind of Circle mage Samson knew loved the sound of their own voice.

“How’d she con you into this?” Balor asked, his voice slightly tremulous with fear. “I bet she promised you your weight in gold. Or are you one of those sadistic templars that enjoys hunting mages for sport.”

Samson cuffed him in the back of his head and Balor stumbled, laughing.

“I knew it!” He crowed. “You’re just like every other power-hungry templar, aren’t you? Can’t wait to exercise your magical impotence on some unassuming mage. Not our fault you people were born deaf to the music of the Fade!”

Samson frowned. He did not deny Balor, but he knew it for a lie.

Too many mages in Kirkwall owed their lives to him, but he could have done more. Balor stared at Samson, his hood knocked back, revealing a shaved head. Samson noted the black lines of tattooing on the scalp. Balor could not have been much older than his mid-thirties. He held up his hands.

“Wait, I recognize you.” He said. “You’re the Red General of the South! The one who poisoned the south with red lyrium! We all thought you’d died.”

Samson sighed. He was tired of holding back this man’s mana, and it was formidable. Balor pushed every step of the way.

“I had no idea.” He said drily.

“You know what Odette is.” Balor said. “She’s a liar and a cheat, yes, but she wasn’t always like this. And you’re just another pawn in her game to try and drag me back to her stupid ship.”

Samson frowned. He shouldn’t have listened, he knew, but Maker things hadn’t been adding up lately and he needed answers from _someone_ , even if it was this sniveling arsehole.

Balor hesitated, saw his opening, and pressed.

“She wasn’t always a pirate.” He said, then laughed. “Well, I suppose that’s obvious. No one comes into life with the sole intention of becoming a pirate. But Odette was different. Being a pirate is easy to her because the sea is her friend.”

Samson crossed his arms. “What are you on about? Get to the fucking point.”

Balor laughed. “She really duped you! You don’t even know, do you? You ever wonder why she’s the only captain who can navigate the Dragon’s Teeth practically with no visibility?”

“She’s a damned good captain.” Samson reasoned, but even that sounded a paltry explanation in his ears. Balor laughed.

“Only because she’s more intimate with the seas than any other sailor could dream to be. She’s...not entirely human.”

Samson hesitated. It was not out of the ordinary, but he was getting more weary with this mission than anything. He had gone from stepping into shit to flailing waist-deep in it. He wanted the ground to swallow him, and he wished Hadiza had just executed him and had done with it.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, mindful of the ache of having it broken only a half a year earlier. It still ached, deep down.

“For fuck’s sake…” He muttered under his breath. “What do you mean she isn’t human?”

Balor turned to him, his scrawny and scruffy with amusement.

“You don’t know the story? Siren...mermaid...whatever gives up her life of singing and swimming to be with a human she’s in love with? But she’s cold-hearted and doesn’t understand love, so she kills him instead? And now she can never be apart of the sea.”

Samson snorted. “That’s just a fucking children’s story.” He countered. Balor shook his head.

“All stories have a kernel of truth at their heart.” He explained. “Odette was always a cold-hearted bitch, but that’s through no fault of her own. It’s just her nature. When she’s done with you, she’ll kill you. She never could let anyone go quietly.”

Samson wanted to scream, and he almost did. Instead, he paced.

“Alright!” He growled. “Say I do believe you. Doesn’t change the fact that she’s my ride to Val Chevin. I’ve a schedule to keep and I’m already behind.”

Balor smiled. “Living your own fairy tale too, huh? Well if you help me kill Odette, I can get you to Val Chevin easily.”

Samson considered it. Thought about the weeks he’d spent at sea, the uneasy camaraderie he’d built with Tiberius, and his immense respect and admiration for Odette that was hardly slavish and common. He had born witness to how her crew was treated fairly, on how they listened raptly when she spoke, and gave her the space and respect she was due. Maker, it was a tempting offer, but Balor filled him with suspicion and worry.

“Even if you are telling the truth,” Samson said, “my deal was with the Captain.”

“Smart man.” Balor said, and then struck.

The surge of mana against his struck like a powerful ocean wave. Samson stumbled, but had his sword and shield out in the next heartbeat as Balor cast a wide glyph of paralysis around him before he could draw on his power again. He needed to recover or he’d be forced to endure a well-rested mage at full strength.

What he wouldn’t give for a vial of red lyrium, Maker damn it all. He wanted two vials and then he could break Balor over his armored knee like a twig.

Instead, he was forced to fight a demon, for that was what Balor left in his place as he fled into the mountain paths. It was just a rage demon, but Samson could feel the searing heat of it as it rose to its full height, shrieking and striking, leaving scalding drops of magma in its wake. It’s eyes were blurred with heat and wavering flames as he blocked each strike with his shield, trying desperately to unbalance it. It dragged itself around, slug-like but faster, claws like heated daggers. Samson struck with his sword, and crowed in triumph as he severed one of its hands, shielding himself from the resultant spray of magma, and wincing at the demon’s shriek of rage.

Samson dove aside as it began to blow flames, and thought the heat alone would sear him and boil him in his own fluids. Then, he felt it...that twinge of excitement, a rush in his veins like a hit of the blue to his senses. He was in a true _fight_ , and it felt damn good to aim his sword at something that more than deserved it.

Samson sprang, fueled by spite and adrenaline alone, and he moved with brutal efficiency, the arc of his blade as familiar to him as his own skin. The sword was an extension of himself, the shield no less so. He blocked, he slashed, he lunged, heedless of the searing heat of the demon, until with a shout, he brought down a smite on the creature, flattening it. He sprang back when it roared, sweat and grime slicking his hair to his skin, panting as the rage demon clawed for purchase, melting into its own fluids. It reached for him with claws extended, and Samson looked upon it with no pity, no remorse, and he felt damned good because here was an enemy that none would dispute deserved to die. Here was an enemy he had been born to fight.

Maker, how had he ever turned from the bright path when demons still stalked the world?

His moment of clarity was blurred by the slow cadence of derisive applause. From the shadows, Odette stepped, looking grimly impressed.

“It is as the stories say.” She said, smiling at the scorched earth where the rage demon had died. Samson looked at her from across the burned patch and did not change his expression.

“Balor still eludes you.” She said, guessing what had hardened him. Samson pointed his sword at the scorched patch before them.

“Before he summoned his friend here, he stressed the fact that you aren’t human. That you’ve roots in an old story. So I’m asking for the truth, captain. I deserve that much if you’re going to be putting me in harm’s way for your vengeance.”

Odette’s mismatched eyes flashed and she crossed the seared earth, heedless of the heat still rising from it, and Samson affirmed his stance, tightening his hold on his shield, his grip on his sword.

“Everything Balor says is true, yes.” Odette explained. “But it doesn’t fucking matter because I am still going to gut him for what he’s done.”

Samson snorted. “Then catch him yourself. I’m not your personal bloodhound.”

Odette laughed. “You are whatever I need you to be until I dump your ass in Val Chevin for you to run to your Inquisitor.”

Samson readied his blade.

Odette moved first.

Samson barely felt the blade as it slipped between his ribs, barely felt it until he opened his mouth and coughed, blood choking his throat, flooding his mouth with copper. Odette retracted her blade, and Samson’s hand went to his side. Sure enough, she’d stuck him, and his hand came away sticky with blood. He stumbled, the pain sending his mind into a panic. Odette watched, pitiless.

“The Ghost will come for me for this,” she murmured, more to herself as Samson fell to his knees, uncertain, his vision reeling as the shadow encroached upon it, “but I cannot afford to lose Balor. Not now. I’ll find another templar.”

Samson fell to his side, clutching the wound. Blood ebbed between his fingers, hot and viscous, drying and staining him with its own shade. He shut his eyes, even as he saw Odette walking away, leaving him for dead.

Even as he heard the spectres of a thousand dead templars clamoring for justice.

Demanding his death as recompense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave one if you with me. ✌


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the princess makes a break for it.

Ariadne would have murdered her way out of the chateau, Hadiza concluded.

Hadiza lay in bed, wearing nothing but the choker—more like a  _ collar _ —around her neck, the heavy emerald warmed by her skin. Within the room, Hadiza felt disconnected, as if she were observing herself from afar. Her senses felt duller, muted, as if her hearing and sight had been halved. She remembered Cole saying something about how mages were gifted with more than just magic, and saw and heard the world differently. She remembered him asking Dorian if he could hear his own spells.

Her mind wandered far, constricted by the borders Etienne had built around her with exacting care. She lay in absolute decadent comfort, seemingly free, save for the weight of a king’s ransom hanging at the hollow of her throat.

Hadiza did not want to kill Etienne, not truly. She found him despicable, yes, but she had not yet unraveled his motivations. He wanted something from this, else why go through so much trouble to isolate her? She thought on the card that came with Remy’s delivery, on the words, cryptic but weighed with so much, as was Vivienne’s way.

_ When the world blocks your path, press forward with care, relentlessly, and never let them see you bleed. _

Hadiza understood the words well enough, but she was frightened that she was running out of time. With no magic, and Etienne’s outclassing her in martial skill, Hadiza needed to find a way to prime and pump him for answers. Her thoughts again circled to her sisters.

Aja would have caved Etienne’s skull with her fists and then burned the chateau down. She thought again, instead, of Ariadne.

Hadiza swallowed hard. Ariadne would have sold Etienne on the idea that she was open to intimacy. She would have pushed past the slurs, the slander, the insults, and seduced him. She would have wrung him limp with sweat, and when he was exhausted and sated, and his eyes heavy-lidded in the aftermath of sex, Ariadne would have drawn her blade across his throat or slipped it between his ribs to pierce his heart.

And Hadiza knew, in her mind’s eye, watching Ariadne move through the halls with the unobtrusive and deathly silence of the very moniker she took, that there would be no survivors in Chateau Piedmont. Servants, guardsmen, cooks, pages— _ all _ would fall beneath her blade.

Come dawn, she would slip from the property, shrouded in morning mist, as cold and distant as the fading stars in the morning sun. It would be days, mayhap weeks before someone came to the chateau, and they would find nothing but corpses. Ariadne left no survivors if she could help it.

Hadiza shuddered in abject horror, shying from the scenario with genuine fear and sickness. Though they were born from the same womb, nothing about Ariadne conveyed filial piety or warmth. Sex was just another weapon in her arsenal. To Hadiza, she would have to be a great deal more desperate and a lot more mentally fortified. To even kiss Etienne that day in the Promenade had taken a degree of detachment from herself Hadiza did not know herself capable of.

And thus, she knew what she had to do: she had to go along; had to see the Game played to its conclusion, and pray she stumbled upon a way to win along the way.

She could not kill Etienne, nor any of those in his employ. She would not bring herself so low as to have such callous disregard for human life. But she knew, deep down, that if it came to it, Etienne would leave her no choice. His chevalier code would compel him to fight her at full strength if for nothing else but to ensure if he did die, he did so honorably. But what of now? Hadiza rolled onto her stomach, breathing deep.

He’d done nothing to physically harm her, not truly. She’d attacked him and only then did he act, and she wondered how much of his lack of true nature was restrained by the chevalier code and how much of it had been placed upon him by his patron. She could not believe that Empress Celene would sanction her assassination, not when her hold on the throne was still so tenuous and Orlais weakened by civil war and Corypheus’ forces. To incite a schism with the Divine would have spelled certain doom for the Empire.

No, it was not Celene. Hadiza pillowed her chin on her arms, her gaze fixated on the gold filigree of the headboard. It had to be someone in the Imperial Court, someone with enough influence…someone near the throne.

Names surfaced in her mind like message bottles in the sea. She racked the archives of her memory to tie each name to their respective house, their allies, their loyalties, where they had been in the last year. Someone concealed poisonous ambition at their heart, someone more powerful that Comte de Piedmont.

Hadiza singled out one name, one she had not thought much on, but she did now.

Duke Ghislain de Bettencourt.

Hadiza bit the pillow to keep from screaming. Of course! When he’d seen her in the city that afternoon he’d all but spat insults at her under cordiality. But Etienne had looked upon him with open disdain, citing his shifting loyalties.

Hadiza rolled over onto her back again, sighing in frustration. Were they allies or no?

She shut her eyes, breathing deep until she felt her body go slow, until she was immersed in a calm, shifting darkness until she slept.

Dawn brought no answers, save one.

When the servants roused her for breakfast, Hadiza threw on her nightgown, offering them no acknowledgement as they left her breakfast cart and retreated from the room. Hadiza ate in embittered silence as the light spilling into her chambers grew brighter. She chewed mechanically, tasting nothing, caring little for the small luxuries of sugar cubes, honey, and rich cream Etienne had access to. She turned her thoughts down a path she wished she could avoid.

She had to catch him unawares. Leliana could not help her, and her companions could not either. Mayhap…no, Vivienne could…

She needed to see Vivienne.

Hadiza abandoned her food and decided to have a bath. She drew it herself, caring little to have the servants in what had reluctantly become her only private space. She allowed herself this small luxury, soaking in almond oil and rose water, until she felt herself relax. The note on Remy’s card had been written in Dorian’s hand, and Vivienne had delivered it either unawares or playing a pretense for Etienne’s benefit. Hadiza wanted to laugh. Whatever bewitchment bound her could not bind some of the most powerful mage minds in Thedas. Dorian had practically invented time travel! He would not be easily swayed by what was obviously bush magic.

Still, it would be tricky, getting to her companions in the city. If Dorian and Vivienne were free, then they had to know how to get the damnable choker off of her.

Hadiza idly traced her lower lip with her tongue. The bath water began to cool, and she frowned, reaching for her mana and being reminded it was barred from her. Thwarted, she rose from the bath with an irritated sigh. She went for her towel, found it just as cool, the runes that had been crafted for keeping it warm were cold and dark. Etienne had stripped her chambers of any echo of magic, and Hadiza found herself feeling far more hostile by the time she was dressed in her riding clothes. She had no intention of remaining his prisoner.

She was patient, biding her time from sunrise to sunset. She made no quarrel with Etienne, and even when given use of her voice, said precious little save to acknowledge what decorum demanded of her. She thanked him for the meal, and did not miss his surprise when she asked to retire early that evening.

“Your usual acerbity is absent, Your Worship,” he remarked dryly, still prying at her nerves, seeking a raw one, “dare I say you have decided at last to cooperate? Have you seen the futility of your resistance?”

Hadiza glanced at him sidelong, wishing her gaze could cut his throat as easily as a blade, but contenting herself with the thought that her patience would bear fruit ere his plan reached its height.

“No.” She said simply, not bothering to elaborate further. Etienne took her by the elbow, and Hadiza was reminded that a chevalier would uphold his honor above all else, or die first…and that chevaliers were the most elite trained warriors in Thedas. There was no one to match them for their training drew upon the foundations of many other elite orders: the Wardens, the Templars, the duelists of Rivain, and even battlemages.

If she fought him now, he could kill her easily, and it further illustrated just how dangerous he truly was. All of this—this back and forth, this  **foolish** charade of courtship—all of it was but child’s play to him. At all times he held her life inextricably in his hand.

Hadiza met his gaze and there was at once understanding between them, as a mouse understood the threat of a lion in its midst. She swallowed hard, and willed herself not to tremble, reminding herself that she had battled far greater foes and won.

With help.

“Rest well, Inquisitor.” Etienne said quietly, his thumb stroking the tender bone of her elbow. “I would not see you worse for wear for the fête.”

Hadiza schooled her face to implacability, but her pulse hammered a fever cadence in her chest.

Etienne released her as she went into her room. When she shut the door she waited until she heard the lock click into place and Etienne’s cat-quiet footsteps fading from earshot. Then, she crumpled to the floor in abject terror.

Her life was worth more if she still drew breath, but she knew if pressed Etienne would find a way to kill her and justify himself. He was a chevalier first, but he was Orlesian above that; duplicity was as water to the fish with him.

She searched her room again, knowing she would find nothing to her advantage. That was, until her eyes fell upon her bed. She narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out what she could possibly do with it. Her gaze slid to her balcony doors. The handles were chained but…

Hadiza ran to her vanity, opening the chests to find what she needed. She withdrew two long hairpins, jeweled and precious, and utterly Ostian in their opulence, and grinned. Then, she tried to remember what Varric had taught her. None of it would avail her with the doors chained shut, but mayhap she could simply…remove the door.

With a grunt, Hadiza carried a chair over to the balcony door and climbed it. There, she examined the hinges. They were lighter than any other door, likely crafted for an easier swing to and fro. Much more than that she did not know, wishing with bitterness that she had paid attention to Varric when he was explaining the differences in hinges, locks, pins and switches. To thin, Old Ricardo had pegged her as a duelist in her nascent years, when really she was no different than a knight; a knight who slung spells with brutal efficiency, but a knight nonetheless.

She sighed, not wanting to waste her precious hairpins on a futile effort, but everyday she lingered within these walls was a day Etienne’s plot advanced ever forward. She began to prod at the door hinge, looking for some weakness, anything to help her discern how to remove the door itself.

It felt like hours, when truly only a stretch of minutes had passed, and Hadiza began to get frustrated, looking for a way to unhinge the door. She was going to give up when the flat of the bladed hairpin slipped between the metal of the pin and the hinge, and she nearly shouted with relief, biting her lips to silence herself.

She worked the pin until it dislodged and the hinge loosened. With it, so did the door.

Climbing down onto the floor, Hadiza worked the bottom hinge and had to silence herself again when it happened. Then, when she realized what she planned to do, she became afraid again. If she were caught, Etienne would keep her in the Black Room until the fête, but if she escaped, she would need to find out who his accomplices were, and she had no proof of any involvement beyond Etienne and Nasir, and she still knew nothing of the artifact at her throat or the one Nasir used in Visage du Soleil. She could not even begin to guess its purpose but she knew in her heart of hearts that it was sinister.

For a moment, Hadiza considered staying. If she stayed, she could lead Etienne into false confidence—not that it would take much effort—and see to it that his plans never came to a head. It would mean enduring his thinly-veiled advances, insults, and idling while waiting for something to happen, which she disliked strongly.

If she left…she could not come back, and she would have to launch an assault on his chateau to stop him.

Hadiza retreated into the bedroom, and then grabbed her rucksack. Within she placed her hairpins, the closest things to weapons she had available to her, and a change of small clothes. Her riding gear was sturdy enough, despite Remy’s fashionable cut, but she did not even know if she could free her mount in order to escape. Doubtless Etienne had guards on patrol in case she made it as far as the stables.

No, she thought ruefully as she shoulder her pack and stripped the bed of its sheets, she would have to walk back to Val Royeaux in the night and arrive by morning. What should have been a short ride would take hours.

Hadiza gently removed the unhinged door, leaning it against the chair, and for a moment she breathed the free air and shut her eyes. Then, she went to glance over the balcony. There were no guards in the garden, of course, and thus Hadiza felt less frightened when she looked down to measure how long of a drop it was from her balcony. With magical aid, she could have leapt from the rooftop and landed as a cat, lightly upon her feet. Now, rendered…rendered  _ mortal  _ as anyone else, she was not so sure the drop from the balcony was feasible, but it was her only means of escape. The tied off sheets would not even take her halfway down, Maker damn it all.

She went for the pillows. It was an absurd idea, and would likely prove ineffectual in the long run, but she had to try. She started with the smallest pillows, first. She dropped one, and winced when it fell with a dull thud upon the ground. She could already hear Varric’s voice telling her to aim properly.

She dropped another, and it fell upon the first. Her confidence gaining momentum, Hadiza dropped every pillow and cushion stripped from her bedroom until she felt the pile below her balcony sufficient to break her fall.

Then came the true test. With effort, she tied off her string of sheets to the base of one of the stone columns, and then tossed the remainder over, praying to Andraste for guidance.

When she climbed over the balcony, holding onto the sheets, she tried not to look down, and hoped her knot-tying did Aja proud…and that her stupid pile of cushions and pillows would be enough to reduce her injuries to minor fractures and bruises and not full breaks.

With a deep breath, she began to descend, clinging to the sheets as if her life depended upon it, for it did.

She felt herself suspended both physically and spiritually, and a light breeze blew, setting her to swaying slightly. She swallowed a curse and descended quickly, too quickly, the sheets began to tear, and suddenly she was in free fall. Hadiza sucked air into her lungs quickly, panicking.

And then she landed, the air forced from her as the cushions and pillows absorbed the impact of her fall. Still, it hurt, and Hadiza lay amidst the pile in stillness and pain, knowing she’d have at least one bruise and a dozen points of muscle soreness come the dawn. Nonetheless, she was on the ground.

“Thank fuck.” She whispered in pain, and climbed to her feet, trembling from the shock. She looked up saw the sheets torn and strewn from the balcony’s edge like ghostly entrails. She was out, then, and there was no turning back.

She considered going to the stables. She could have Nyx saddled and ready to flee in under five minutes, but she knew the odds of her escape dwindled with the irascible Friesian in tow.

She made her way towards the front of the chateau, clinging to the umbra of shadows cast by the tall bushes and trees. She felt freedom was but a sprint away, and it was. The long stretch of gravel was all that stood between her and the Imperial Road.

She looked back, saw no guards in pursuit. Chateau de Piedmont was quiet.

She ran.

The gates loomed ever closer, freedom a single vault away, and then she heard something that made her heart leap into her throat, deepening the burn of her lungs: hoofbeats.

If she looked back, she would lose, and so Hadiza sprinted, boots spraying gravel with each leap she took for freedom. And suddenly there was a sound, like a bowstring popping, or the twang of a crossbow. Her ankles gave out? She could not be sure, only that suddenly her legs were clumsy and she was falling hard upon the gravel. When she tried to climb to her feet, she found them bound.

Etienne sat in the saddle, the moonlight casting him in eerie shadows, glimmering off of his chevalier mask, silvering the yellow plumage that sprang from it. He looked like a figure out of the old tales, and a chevalier—the highest order of knight there ever was—should have brought feelings of relief, of comfort, of hope, and pride.

Hadiza felt the cold ocean of dread rise within her, chilling her bones as she realized that she had in fact failed.

“I knew there was somewhat amiss when you remained reticent this evening.” Etienne said, pulling the rope that bound her. Hadiza cried out as she was dragged toward him. Etienne barely seemed to register the effort, which frightened her more.

“Would that you had decided to cooperate,” he continued, dismounting to further bind her. Hadiza struggled, and he restrained her with ease, as if he predicted her movements. Thus bound, Etienne hauled her onto his horse, not as a lady in one of the old tales, but as a conquest. The word was turned aside, and as he turned them back, it jounced in her vision in time with the horse’s loping gait. She did not speak, but for the first time, tears of despair freed themselves and she wept for frustration and an opportunity squandered. 

* * *

 

He dreamed of her, not for the first time, but it was the first time in a while his dreams of her had lingered well after he’d woken up.

They were back at Skyhold, and he found her sitting in the Chantry garden. Samson thought with a swelling fondness that she was completely fitting to be surrounded by flowers and green, growing things while the perpetual winter of the Frostbacks swirled around the fortress. She was doing nothing, her hands folded in her lap, merely enjoying the sweet breath of the eternal spring she and the other mages had cultivated. Samson could not help it, he mouthed her name to himself, a confession he was not quite ready to divulge.

As if she’d heard him, her head turned, star-thieved eyes bright with mirth and warmth. Her smile broke across her face like a true dawn and she beckoned to him. Samson walked toward her, and she slid across the bench to make room for him. He sat, and she turned to him, still smiling.

“It is not like you to be enjoying my garden at such a...public hour.” She teased. “Dare I say you are beginning to enjoy it?”

Samson frowned. For all he could see, they were the only two souls within Skyhold.

And suddenly, the garden’s colors bled away, like watercolors in the rain. The lines and shapes that sculpted the world around him blurred and broke and dissolved. Hadiza faded and swirled into smoke before his eyes.

And suddenly he was in the Emerald Graves with her, in his armor, and she was kneeling, clutching the staff of her partisan for support. Sweat dampened her hair, and she heaved in gulps of air. Blood and viscera surrounded her, charred and sizzling in the aftermath of a blaze.

“Hadiza.” Samson said her name and she looked up, eyes bright with an awareness instilled in all skilled warriors. The fight was still in her, welling up like a brutal magma, and for a moment, he felt the latent charge of her mana along his skin. When she registered his presence, her eyes softened. As she opened her mouth to speak, the world around them dissolved again, and she turned to liquid before he could reach her.

They were on the Storm Coast, and she stood at the edge of the swelling tide, her eyes fixated on the sea. He stood at her side, watching the sea swell and heave, tortured by the neverending storm. Somewhere, across the tossing breadth of the Waking Sea were the places they once called home.

Kirkwall.

Ostwick.

Places to which all ties that bound them had been severed when they chose to become what they were, both to themselves, and one another.

Her hand reached for his. Samson took it.

The world dissolved, but this time, Hadiza stayed.

“How do you always know how to find me?” She asked. Samson stared at her, confused. Hadiza turned to face him.

“How do you know?” She asked again.

Samson woke up, fitful and perplexed, rubbing his face, his shirt clinging to him from the sweat. He was delirious and disoriented, like waking from a stupor after too long off the dust and too much rotgut ale in his belly. He wanted to heave, but his stomach felt hollow and caved-in, as if he’d eaten nothing for days on end. Too much of this feeling reminded him of his days as an addled addict and beggar.

And then he became acutely aware of the ache in his side.

Samson looked down, lifting his shirt to inspect the wound. Sure enough, someone had cleaned it and packed it with that poultice of  _ hygiea _ root and elfroot. The bandage was soaked and russet with his blood, and he didn’t dare touch it. None of the honeyed flavor of Hadiza’s magic flooded his mouth, and he could not say why he was disappointed.

“Shoddy work, I know.” A familiar voice said and Samson moved, too quick, and his wound betrayed him, rendering him still with agony. In the flickering lantern light, Balor stepped forward, and Samson let himself reach for his blade, finding it difficult. Balor smiled crookedly.

“I know a templar when I see one.” He said. “And I know which templar you are, Red General.”

Samson braced himself. He was unarmed, without armor, and wounded. If he was to die, he decided, let it be with some dignity. He fixed Balor with a baleful stare, saying nothing.

“Go on do what you’ve come to do.”

Save that.

Balor blinked. “I think you’re mistaken.” He said. “I am trying to help you. Or maybe you forgot that it was Odette who tried to kill you?”

That gave Samson pause, and for a moment he searched his memory for the last time he was lucid and awake. He felt as weak as a newborn kitten, and he was as hungry as a bear after winter it felt like. Still, he remembered Odette coming toward him, remembered the feel of her knife in his body, how she’d watched him fall, then walked away, leaving him for dead.

But it had been Balor who summoned the demon for him to fight in the first place.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Balor’s voice was amused, and Samson felt it rather than heard it. It was unsettling. “I summoned the demon to see if you were really a templar. Odette’s brought sword-wielders to the Cove before, claiming they were templars, but none of them had that clean, exacting fighting style templars are known for. And none of them had the ability to nullify magic.”

Samson frowned. So the demon had been a test. He flexed his hands and balled them into fists. It had been a damned grueling test. He had to accept that he wasn’t getting any younger. That fight could have cost him some mobility.

“So why’d you help me?” He asked finally, turning his gaze to Balor again.

“Because if you’re the knight I think you are, then you’re a friend to mages.” Balor said quietly. Samson’s its twisted and he seemed ready to refute that because had he not been a friend to mages he might still be in the Order.

But he’d made the choice to take red lyrium. He might still have. His…his dependence on lyrium had been his weakness.

“I ain’t been that man for a long time.” Samson told him bitterly. “And I’m no friend to mages who use blood magic and demons to hurt people.”

Balor laughed. “You worked with and for one of the  _ original  _ magisters of myth and legend, Samson. You force-fed red lyrium to the entire templar Order and, memory serve, a lot of civilians you decided to use as your own red lyrium garden. And there was something about a demon army with the Wardens that you seemed to be quite alright with. I think your pretenses of moral superiority are wasted at this point.”

Samson didn’t deny any of it, much as it shamed him to hear it flung in his face. Even Hadiza had been merciful on that front, being more concerned with the noncombatants he’d harmed than anything else he’d been complicit in.

“Doesn’t mean I’m a friend to you.” He said instead. Balor held up his hands.

“Fair enough.” He said, backing away, “But without my help, you’re stuck here. Odette will figure out you’re alive eventually, and then she’ll come to finish us both off.”

Samson made an attempt to get out of bed, ignoring the sharp pain in his side as he searched for his gear. He found it neatly piled on the far side of the room, and he moved, limping, toward it, eager to be within the protective embrace of his armor, with the familiar weight of his sword and shield on his back. Balor watched him as he struggled to lift the breastplate, and Samson cursed when he found the wound stretched enough to begin bleeding again.

“Fuck!” He dropped the breastplate with a loud and heavy clatter, his hand going to his side. Only then did Balor move.

“Told you,” he said, coming toward Samson, “you need my help.”

Samson hesitated, but eventually, relaxed letting Balor do his work. Healing magic flared, making the backs of Samson’s eyes tingle, but there was no familiar taste of honey in his mouth as there had been when Hadiza laid her healing hands upon him. Instead, Balor’s healing magic carried with it the bitterness of the healing herbs mages used. Samson gagged, and Balor laughed.

“Tastes horrible, I know.” He said. “Back at the Circle, they told us it takes a lot of precision and finesse to get the taste to be less abrasive. In the end, I think sometimes it can’t be helped.”

Samson did not retort as he meant to and instead ran his fingertips over the newly formed scar tissue. It was perhaps the cleanest scar he had on his torso. He stood still, staring at his armor, and he wondered again if it was all worth this hassle. He’d endured less for smuggling mages out of Kirkwall. But this was different. He didn’t care about other mages. He cared about  _ one _ . One foolish girl who thought sparing his life was a mercy, Maker damn her eyes. For a moment, Samson wanted to break the chain around his heart, wanted to be free of it...of her.

He remembered her smile, her words to him, a promise as yet unfulfilled. A year and a day. A year and a day and he could have her...truly have her. He remembered the open-sky joy of holding her as she kissed him under the light of stars alone. He wondered what joy he could unlock kissing her under the sun in full view of her people.

Samson left the chain around his heart and sighed.

“Tell me how to get to Odette.” He said firmly. Balor laughed again.

“Why? She’ll kill you. And don’t think you’ll find any succor with her crew, either. She’s got them as loyal as mabari. If she tells them to kill you on sight, they will.”

Samson thought about Tiberius and his thoughtful, pensive insightful gaze and hesitated. Certainly he would not kill without being given sufficient reason. Then he remembered Tiberius’ words praising Odette as if she’d brought the light of the sun with her and shut his eyes.

“Andraste’s fucking tears.” He muttered. Balor shared a smile with Samson’s shadow.

“Help me take her down, Samson,” Balor pleaded, reaching to heft the breastplate of his armor and hand it to him, “before she destroys everything I’ve built here.”

Samson no longer cared to know the truth. Thus far, both Balor and Odette had tried to kill him, but he was bereft of his belongings on the ship, including his token that would mark him as an Inquisition agent. He was damned without it, but he knew there was no turning back. Balor’s offer as an ally was ready and waiting, and yet...Samson had spent weeks at sea amongst Odette and her crew. He had toiled alongside them, had seen their work ethic and dedication to the running of the ship. And Odette had asked but one thing of him in exchange for safe passage, and now Balor did the same. Samson considered killing them both and letting the Maker sort them out, but he could practically hear Hadiza yelling at him for being so despicable.

Samson steeled his will, his heart heavy.

“Alright.” He said, hating the taste of perfidy in his mouth. “I’ll help you. But we’ve got to lure her onto dry land. If she takes to the seas we’ll never see her and you’ll be stuck looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life.”

Balor smiled. “I knew you’d see things my way. Go ahead and get ready. I’ve already got a plan.”

Somehow that did not reassure Samson at all.

Balor left him to get dressed and Samson was relieved that his wound did not pain him as much as it had when it was fresh. Instead, he felt an itching tightness as the raw scar tissue stretched with each movement. It was going to be aggravating once he was sweating in his armor, unable to reach it and scratch as he wished.

Once he was dressed he finally took stock of his surroundings. The abode was simple, little more than a hovel, really. Is this how the legendary “Blackthorn” lived? Samson wanted to scoff. At least when he’d set himself up as a lordling, he’d taken an ancient temple as his headquarters. He’d slept on silk sheets, and he did not lack for light, food, or coin. This mage lived like a runaway, and it annoyed him. The Circles were no more, the Order was splintered to pieces by his own hand, and the Divine was a former assassin. Balor Guildenstern did not live in squalor because he had to, Samson surmised.

He left the room, found his path lit by braziers of dancing faerie fire, the light emanating from the flames eerie and ephemeral. They cast conflicting shadows along the walls as the color shifted from green to purple to blue. Samson could feel magic in this cavern--for that is what this place was--crawling along the walls. It made him itch because he knew the magic was... _ wrong  _ somehow. He knew the scent of blood, the scent that stank of deliberate human cruelty. He swallowed hard and steeled himself.

Then the passage opened up into a central chamber, and Samson understood where he might have been. He turned a slow circuit to glimpse the chamber in full. Several passages had been carved into the mountain, and railing had been built. The entire place was a storage area, a natural warehouse for goods. And being an island, he wagered that it was safe from darkspawn emergence.

Samson saw Balor at the top of one of the platforms speaking with someone. He looked jovial, patting the other individual on the shoulder reassuringly. When Samson came upon them, he cleared his throat. Balor and the individual turned and Samson almost felt his heart leap into his throat.

Priam stared at him with hard eyes.

“I see you two are already acquainted.” Balor said cheerily. “Good, good. Let’s go somewhere where we can plot this messy business and have done with it, shall we?”

Samson swallowed his shock and schooled his face to calm.

“So, Priam, you’ve finally seen what I did, eh?” Balor asked as he led them into a side room. Samson knew they were his quarters as soon as they entered. The lavishness screamed Circle mage arrogance, including the small alchemy lab set up in the far corner of the room. Priam sucked his teeth.

“I’m not dying for that bitch’s pride. She’s a good captain--one of the best to ever coast the waters--but she’ll destroy this place for her vengeance and we’ll still have to answer to the council in Llomeryn.”

Samson said nothing. He understood well enough Priam’s frustration. He’d felt the same about Meredith.

“She can’t have it both ways.” Priam continued. “She wants to be a siren  _ and  _ a human being. I say if she wants to be with her sisters, we toss her into the waters and let them deal with her. I’ll not follow a demon into certain doom.”

“She’s not a demon.” Balor corrected sardonically. “Although if I had a voice like that I’d certainly not blame the unlearned masses from making that assumption. The Chantry will have you thinking a passing breeze in a desert was sent by demons, the superstitious lot.”

The last word crawled into Samson’s ears like a horde of insects and he reached up to scratch his ears vigorously. Balor was smiling. Priam rubbed his ears irritably.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that.” Samson groused irritably. Balor shrugged.

“It comes and goes.” He said. “But it is useful when I want to make a point. In any case, I know exactly how to lure Odette to us. Priam is going to hunt you down, Samson, and bring Odette with him. She’s never been one to let someone steal a kill she’s marked for herself. And she won’t be able to resist you as bait.”

Samson grumbled a curse. The price for bringing him in was no doubt exorbitant, but he wore the Inquisition’s mantle of protection around him, and by extension, Ariadne’s, which in some ways was a great deal more formidable. There was no one in the room who wanted  _ that  _ woman to hunt them down. While Odette was sea-bound, Ariadne was not. And Samson had heard tell of the lengths Ghost would go to kill her prey.

“She’ll already be in deep shit with your Inquisition for trying to kill you once,” Priam said grimly, “so you’ll just be doing the world a service by helping us get her out of the way.”

Samson did not hesitate; to do so would cast him once more in the shadow of suspicion.

“Alright.” He said, adjusting one of his vambraces. “Let’s get to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, princess. This is what happens when you cross blades with a chevalier who thinks with more than his sword, and you on his home turf? Oop! Better luck next time.
> 
> Samson's not dead. Yay! Now let's see if I can start him back on the path of his rescue mission. I want to thank folks for still sticking with me through this story. I know it feels like a never ending adventure but there's a purpose to all this nonsense, I promise lol. As always, leave one if you with me. ✌


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get another answer...and a way out.

Etienne did not punish Hadiza immediately. No, rather, when they returned, he welcomed her like an honored guest. He let her sleep in the very room she had escaped from, under guard of course, and left her alone until morning, where she was served a sumptuous feast that passed as breakfast. She was freed from her restraints, allowed to bathe and dress herself, and even afforded some semblance of privacy. It was how Hadiza knew true terror.

This continued for three days.

On the third evening, after dinner, Etienne waited for her by the steps, a quintessential gentleman. Hadiza felt something crawling on her skin in warning, as if there was a great bell sounding alarm in her mind.

He held out his hand.

“Come.” Etienne held out his hand. “You must be tired.”

Hadiza hated him. If she moved, he would credit it to his whim and not her will, and if she stayed, defiant, she would defeat her entire purpose for compliance. Hadiza felt her pride burn within her blood like poison and stimulant. Her head ached, and she knew it was because of prolonged deprivation of her magic. Her senses were still dulled, and she was afraid she acclimating too quickly to the silence; to the indolent yawn her magic left, trapped within her skin.

She walked forward, refusing his hand as she went past him into the chateau. She made her way upstairs, towards her room...and found it locked. Etienne was cat-quiet behind her, and she gasped when his hand pressed against the small of her back.

“Oh no, my dear. Due to your lack of decorum we have a need to accommodate you in a way that bests suits your temperament and elicits your cooperation.”

Hadiza felt her palms grow sweaty as he guided her further into the chateau.

To the Black Room.

There, he bound her--truly bound her--shackled like a wild animal in the dimly-lit, windowless room. It smelled of strong incense, like the kind used in the Chantry back in Ostwick, but whatever this place was used for, lacked any grace of the Maker or Andraste within its walls. Hadiza knew precious little of the pleasure arts that hailed from Tevinter, but she knew enough to know that the immaculate nature of the room was not for prisoners.

Not _unwilling_ prisoners, that is.

“You are lucky my magic is bound.” Hadiza said quietly, surprised at the hoarseness of her own voice. “You know there is no stone in this place strong enough to hold me.”

Etienne stared at her, and his calm unnerved her. She had never seen a man so cold, so devoid of compassion and empathy. No man, no, only the creatures she faced in the belly of the world. Even Corypheus had regained a glimmer of his poignant humanity in his final moments, arms outstretched, calling out for a god that had not deigned to answer for over a thousand years. Hadiza understood that pain, understood that beneath the corruption that Corypheus had been a man once.

But Etienne had shed himself of all of these things, and Hadiza feared not only that, but the fact that he may not have wanted anything from her at all. With nothing to offer but her suffering and the destruction of all she’d worked to achieve, she had naught to bargain with. Again, she turned her thoughts to Ariadne, knowing the course of action available could just as easily damn her as liberate her.

“The challenge you offer is sweet to me, Inquisitor.” Etienne said, his voice calm. “I would relish and delight the challenge of pitting myself against one of Thedas’ most powerful mages. But as entertaining and invigorating as that would be, your purpose here is not for sport.”

Hadiza sighed inwardly, relieved. At least he was not that kind of man.

“You have raised questions amidst those of the peerage in Orlais,” he continued, “questions you have deigned to deflect and neglected to answer. I and others like me have begun to question your integrity and the legitimacy of your leadership.”

Hadiza adjusted herself to stand a bit taller, tired as she was.

“So you will what? Kill me? Fill the void I leave with some puppet you can control? My companions won’t stand for it.”

Etienne smiled. “Not a puppet, no. But someone they trust already.”

Hadiza reached for her throat, thinking. It dawned on her, then, the scope of his plan.

“No.” She whispered. She met his gaze, visibly hurt at the shock of the betrayal, and the depth it would reach if allowed to be implemented. “I forbid it.”

“You are in no position to forbid anything, Your Worship.” Etienne said, amused. “But that’s lovely that you don’t approve. It only affirms our position that you have given into corruption.”

Hadiza knew what he was referring to, but she dared not voice it, dared not give voice to the lie that buried the truth.

_The heart wants what the heart wants, even that which is worst for it._

But was it the worst? Hadiza shut her eyes. She refused to believe that she would be moved so strongly toward anyone--anything--that meant her harm. She had never felt like this about anyone. She wished, not for the first time, that she had defied decorum and convention and brought him anyway. She knew then that the real reason she had been forbidden to do so was because of the foul magic being used to control her.

“The Seer’s Star is a remarkable device,” Etienne said, as if reading her thoughts, “it compels the people around it to do and believe in the will of the wielder. Of course, what you wear is but a mere fragment, but it is potent enough. Strange, though, you seem resistant to its compulsory magic. I wonder why that is.” He smiled, a quirk of his lovely mouth. “Nasir can handle that messy detail soon enough. I’ll come to fetch you for the fête when it’s time. Until then, you...make yourself comfortable and think on the future, for it holds much promise.”

He left, and Hadiza knew the perfect blankness of impotent despair.

* * *

Samson would never admit that he was a mage-hunter by his very nature, but he would adamantly deny that he enjoyed a single moment of it. Now, working alongside Balor, Samson gleaned glimpses of the story behind the nasty feud between the mage and the raider captain.

“Demons.” He said in disgust. “Always with you mages and demons.”

Balor hesitated, as if he was afraid to refute Samson’s templar sensibilities. Instead, he shrugged, accepting the truth of his alleged crimes as one might accept the inevitability of the sunrise. Samson scowled, but it did not seem to shift his willingness to help.

“Contrary to what the Chantry taught you, Ser Samson,” Balor said, “there are other creatures aside from demons in this world. Older creatures, from before.”

Samson tried not to acknowledge the churn in his gut that had precious little to do with lyrium shortage. He did not like the sound it: _from before_. It reminded him too much of Corypheus, dredged up all the confusion, anger, and fear. He wanted to believe anything _from before_ died with the ancient magister, but the Dragon’s Teeth held proof that the magister was not the only thing that had survived these long millennia.

“So, do you control them?” He asked at last and Balor raised his brows in obvious surprise.

“Control?” He asked. “Oh! Ah, you must be one of those smart templars, then.” He ignored Samson’s sneer and instead waved his hand dismissively.

“I do not control them personally, no, but they are confined to the Dragon’s Teeth. A wonderful deterrent if anyone comes looking to make trouble.”

Samson shifted uneasily on his feet. “Indeed. But ain’t no magic in any Circle that teaches a mage how to do that.”

“You are right.” Was all Balor said, and for a moment his eyes were hard. “In any case, are you prepared to set things in motion?”

Samson checked his armor, flexing his hands inside of his gauntlets.

“Aye.” He said. “Just make sure you do your part.”

Balor smiled impishly, but said nothing. He blurred out of sight and Samson had to resist the urge to leap out of his skin as his senses stretched taut with the awareness of strong magic being cast. Priam had already left to head back to _The Deliverance_ , and Samson was left to follow and hopefully draw Odette out to land again. Samson disliked that betrayal did not taste as bitter this time around.

He went.

All over, it seemed as if the shantytown of Smuggler’s Cove was preparing for something, as if the seedy little sore of an island had gotten wind of the impending conflict. The whore quarters were quiet, and the taverns were hushed. All through the streets, Samson saw people darting to and fro, eager to get to a shelter. It was clear, from his second walk, that none of these people were the hardened pirate stock he’d come to expect. These were more like refugees making a life for themselves than career raiders. Still, the town had drawn a collective breath and Samson felt his hackles raise in alarm. Something was off, even as he came upon the docks, seeing _The Deliverance_ moored and bobbing in the water.

Samson took a deep breath and approached the gangplank as if he were still a welcome crew member.

He was met with blades, of course, one of which was Priam.

Samson held up his hands, smiling as roguishly as he could muster, and tilted his head.

“Easy,” he said, keeping himself still, “just came to see the Captain is all. Wanted to explain things, see if we could talk it out.”

He did not meet Priam’s gaze, but he hoped the man knew to play along. The other raider didn’t seem to share that sentiment.

“We’ve got our orders.” He said fiercely, eager to bleed Samson out. Priam lowered his blade.

“Aye, but he’s crew and as such has a right to stand before the Captain and plead his case. Although, this is kind of strange. No one usually survives the Captain’s…personal executions.”

Samson’s smile became a grin, and he hoped he looked as _nasty_ as he felt.

“I’ve been told I’m exceedingly difficult to get rid of.”

“Stubborn as a plague rat.” Priam said. “Alright. We’ll let you see the Captain. Can’t promise she won’t finish you off this time.”

Samson shrugged, relieved as the younger raider lowered his sword, sheathing it bitterly. The lad was eager to prove himself—and his fealty—to the crew, Samson could see it in every line of tension in his body, in the defiant clench of his jaw and the brightness of his green eyes. He wanted so badly to prove that he stood for his crew and his Captain before all else.

Including traitors—especially so.

He found her stateroom easy enough, it had only been a handful of days—or possibly longer—since she’d left him for dead, but Odette herself was not present. Samson frowned, knowing Odette inhabited only the quarterdeck or her quarters when aboard the ship. Easy enough, she could have been ashore for whatever reason.

“So, the rumors of your being notoriously too stubborn or lucky to die in the gutter are also true.” Odette’s voice was void of her god mark, the magic that infused it with the ability to bend the will of men and drive them to their own demise. Samson turned to face her, found her leaning leisurely in the doorway, looking amused and not at all enraged that he’d survived.

“I can only assume Balor healed you and has sent you to lure me out.” She said, stepping inside and shutting the door behind her. Samson said nothing but inwardly cursed that the plan had been transparent. He wasn’t sure who was trapping whom at this point. Odette went to her cabinet, withdrawing a crystal bottle of dark liquor. This time, she withdrew two glasses, poured both. She gestured for Samson to sit.

Samson sat.

Odette sat across from him, her gaze distant.

“Whoever they are,” she said, taking a sip to wet her lips with the burn of whiskey, “they must be very dear to you to risk all this just to get to them. Is it the Inquisitor?”

Samson said nothing but his jaw clenched only slightly.

Odette smiled. “Your ability to survive isn’t the only rumor floating around about you these days, Red General. But don’t worry, I’ll not go repeating it to anyone that might be able to actually do damage to the Inquisition. Their strong-arm tactics have actually served me in good stead this long year past.”

Samson didn’t touch his whiskey, wondering how best to shape his plan.

“In any case, there is nothing you can say now that will stop me.” Odette finished the swallow of whiskey in a single go. “Balor is going to die because he must. He is tampering with a power he has no idea how to control nor did he earn, and he must pay the price.”

Samson finally decided. “I’m not here to stop you.” He said softly. “I’ve no right to.”

Odette glanced at him sharply, mismatched eyes wide. Samson sat back in the chair, resting his hand on his sword comfortably.

“I just want this over with so I can get o Val Chevin.” He sighed deeply, and he was tired—well and truly tired. He would never lead again if he could help it.

“Well.” Odette said. “Since you technically haven’t attempted to kill me on his behalf, I suppose our deal still stands. However, I have a condition…”

Samson met her gaze. “I need the money.” He said and Odette laughed.

“Keep your paltry coin, templar, I’ve no need of it. No, what I require is a name. Balor cannot be acting alone, and he cannot hope to defeat me and not expect some semblance of retaliation from my crew. This has led me to believe there is a traitor in my midst. I need to know if there are any familiar faces you saw while convalescing in his stronghold.”

Samson hesitated, cursed himself for doing so, and Odette pounced on it like a hound on the scent of blood.

“So it’s true.” She whispered. “Tell me who it is.”

Samson swallowed. “Can you survive heartbreak a second time, my lady?” He asked instead.

Odette stared at him, startled, and her gaze grew closed, shuttered, and cold. He had dredged up a memory, he knew, one she had spent long years burying, but he knew that look. Inwardly, he knew she was at war with herself for being foolish, for being bold, for daring to reach beyond the grasp fate gave her.

He knew it because he wrestled with himself every night.

For a while there was only silence and Odette poured herself another glass.

“Humanity is so barbaric,” she murmured, taking another sip, “you all are so savage when you have no reason to be. You’ve food aplenty, shelter, you have a society, communities, families…and yet…you slaughter each other as if you have none of these things. You betray one another for what? Lumps of metal to exchange for something you have in abundance?”

Samson sighed again. “If you’re going to lament the failings of humanity, you’ve chosen the wrong ear, girl. I’m the worst person for that. I’ve been a poor man almost all my life, and being a knight was the only thing that kept bread on the table for twenty years. My parents pawned me off to the Chantry rather than have another mouth to feed. So no, my lady, not everyone has those things.”

He paused, feeling remorseful for having been so harsh, but then he remembered the aching scar tissue in his ribs and hardened his heart.

“But you had all of those things too, and you still crawled onto land because you wanted more.” Samson frowned. “That’s the answer, my lady: we all want more than what we’ve got. Sometimes life deals you a mediocre hand and you want a better one. And sometime life deals you a decent hand but you lose anyway. Either way: you want more, and you do anything to get it.”

“That why you did what you did, Samson?” Odette asked wryly. “For more?”

Samson said nothing. He wasn’t ready to answer that question but the answer was there, at the bottom of his heart, like the dregs of poison sloshing around in the bottom of a glass. Maybe one day he’d tip it back and swallow it along with his pride.

“Look,” Samson said, “either you kill Balor, or he kills you, I don’t much care which. Both of you have promised to get me where I need to be if either one happens. But…”

Odette smirked. “You’d much rather help me.”

Samson swore under his breath. “Yes. Because we had a deal, you and I. Because despite what a bitch you are, you were done a great wrong…and you’ve a decent crew under you; real loyal bunch and that’s hard to come by. By all accounts you’re the only thing keeping half these bastards from wandering off to commit worse crimes than piracy.”

“So you’re helping me because I’m the lesser of two evils.” Odette surmised, amused to the last.

Samson curled his lip in distaste. “Never said you were evil, Captain. Just a bitch is all. I’ve met worse. I’ve _served_ worse, with a great deal less integrity and a lot more hatred in their hearts for others.”

Odette laughed, considering him shrewdly. “I suppose you have.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to the bitches of Thedas, then; collaring the men who would rather live in fear and respect than die screaming.”

Samson almost laughed at the ridiculous toast, but raised his glass all the same. And he drank, relishing the burn of liquor down his throat, warming his belly, and loosening his limbs. Odette nodded toward him.

“I’ll go with you, then. But when the time comes, you cannot interfere.” She said.

“I won’t.” Samson said. “Just make sure you hold up your end of the deal.”

Odette smiled, and this time it chills Samson’s blood. There was something off-kilter about it. It was…too sharp, too curved, too much like a slash than a pair of lips. For a moment her nose seemed to vanish, and her good eye seemed to take on a soft yellowing glow, like a lone firefly in the night.

“I keep my promises.” She said.

At least this time betrayal did not taste bitter on his tongue.

* * *

 

In the Black Room, Hadiza wondered at the passage of time, wondered how Etienne would explain her lack of public appearances. She knew Orlais would take it for a sweeping romance, and she gagged on her own tongue to think of the rumors Etienne likely fed in her absence. She was tired, she knew that, and the prospect of killing him became more and more enticing.

There had to be another way.

The servants were vigilant, and fiercely loyal to their lord, keeping Hadiza on a stringent schedule. Her every move was watched, every action measured. She was inspected for weapons both makeshift and not, and allowed to bathe twice daily, with two servants in attendance behind a screen of silk. She was forbidden to send messages, and anything she wrote was inspected and tossed in the fire soon after.

For all that, Etienne gave orders that her belongings were to remain untouched and that any item found missing would come out of the flesh of the servants. They adhered to this with stringent alacrity. Hadiza knew the bitterness of begrudging respect. Whatever else Etienne was, he was no thief. He’d not steal his victory, however duplicitous he was.

Hadiza sighed, tugging at her restraints again.

Etienne came to see her, as he always did, and she knew the burn of hatred for he was not cruel to her in anyway beyond the verbal daggers he planted under her skin. He was the opposite in every other respect, however. He was kind to her, he was cordial, and he made no untoward advances upon her. Would that he had, would that he made it easier for her to come to a final verdict on how she would punish him in the end.

“Your friends have asked after you. They wonder if you have decided to become my paramour full time since you are so taken with me.” He laughed, as if it were some sick joke.

Hadiza glowered. “You and I both know Madame de Fer thinks you as much a catch as she does a dead fish washed ashore.” She said to him. Etienne laughed again, and it galled her. There was no way for her to hurt a man who cared for little and had even less to fear.

“True, true,” he agreed, “but even she must think me a better alternative than the Red General.”

Hadiza was silent, but the tension in her jaw and the brightness of her eyes shouted her outrage as surely as her voice. Etienne shrugged.

“Orlais is not as foolish as the rest of you make it seem, Inquisitor.” He said. “We have suspected that your tryst with the disgraced templar was more than a fleeting moment of weakness. But there are some who believe you corrupted by him, that he has turned you from the bright path of the faith, and that through you, he will damn us all eventually.”

Hadiza knew it for a lie. Samson could damn no one, not anymore. He was harmless to his former enemies, but he was deadly— _more than deadly_ —to hers.

“It is for the best that he isn’t here,” Etienne scoffed, “although it would have made for good sport to test my mettle against his savage ferocity.”

Hadiza said nothing. She would not compromise everything for a petty victory in an equally petty conversation.

“So how is your benefactor doing?” She asked. “I know you cannot afford Visage du Soleil. Not when your family went bankrupt during the Fereldan Rebellion.”

Etienne paused, but said nothing, but she saw his gaze sharpen on her; a hawk that had found a morsel of food.

“You would not act alone in this,” she murmured, “not without coaching and a patron to fund your ambition. So who is it among the nobility that is willing to go to such lengths to see my work undone?”

Etienne chuckled. “You continue to misunderstand the goal. No mind, it won’t matter. Once it is reached, you will no longer be necessary.”

Hadiza snarled. “Where is your honor?” She snapped. “There is no honor in this, and you know it. If you have quarrel with me, then face me as a chevalier should and prove your claim!”

She saw it, the tightening hesitation like a noose about the neck. Etienne warred with himself for that chevalier pride, that damnable honor of theirs, knowing she spoke truth. He had fought alongside the Inquisition not a year gone by, had he given up the chevalier ideals so quickly? She hoped not, she hoped he would see the truth in her words, honor her request, and face her not as a prisoner, but as a worthy opponent upon the field. She knew very well that if he did, there was a chance he would kill her...a high chance.

Then, she saw it, the peculiarity in his eyes, like a crawl of lightning across the sky during a storm, only it was _green_.

Hadiza gasped, saw Etienne strain against whatever had a foothold within him, and _lose_.

“I would…” His voice was hoarse, and she heard the raw desperation in it as he fought against the compulsion of the spell he was under. “I would see you freed and face your blade…”

And then he was gone. Hadiza watched the humanity leave his eyes, his face hard behind his mask.

“You are not a worthy opponent, Inquisitor Trevelyan.” He said coldly. “But your companions may yet prove a challenge if they refuse to fall in line.”

Hadiza’s mouth opened as her voice was stolen from her, along with her breath. Etienne rose to leave, and she shouted soundlessly at his retreating back.

_You lie! You lie! Come back and face me you armored bastard!_

She strained against her binds, but the door was shut, leaving her in the flickering glow of a handful of candles.

Alone with her thoughts, Hadiza sat, trying to spin gold from straw, trying to turn over and over n her mind what she had just seen. Etienne had told her the Seer’s Star—the emerald, she assumed—compelled those within its reach to do the bidding of the wielder. She had seen that jewel in the possession of only one person.

Nasir Anwar.

Hadiza laughed, soundless and hysterical. She laughed because for all she had linked the puzzle pieces together, she could discern nothing with any semblance of clarity as to what the _fuck_ was going on. So she laughed, she laughed because she was dry of tears, and she ascended to a point beyond maddening frustration.

The following day, Etienne came to Hadiza, looking angrier than she’d ever seen him, but it was a controlled anger. He was dressed in finery, his brocade doublet was pristine, and he smelled of sun-warmed cinnamon. The scent filled the cell even as his figure—lean and finely silhouetted—darkened the doorway.

“You are clever, Inquisitor.” He said in a low voice. “I’ll give you that. You are also damnably lucky.”

Hadiza’s brow furrowed but she said nothing.

“The Most Holy wishes an audience with you and you alone. I suspect that even without your voice you managed to get a message to her.” Etienne glanced at his nails, agitated. “I suppose it is one more strike against you: your companion is the Divine, and so it affords you an unfair advantage over the world.”

Hadiza was reticent for a moment longer, but inwardly, hope swelled within her like panacea cleansing the blood of all sickness. Here was an opportunity and resource Etienne had not counted on! Even voiceless, Hadiza knew Leliana had a suspicious enough mind, and like as not she maintained correspondence with her successor. Ariadne would have kept tabs on the Inquisitor’s movements and reported anything out of the ordinary.

In that moment, Hadiza loved her sister more than anything or anyone in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply apologize to anyone who has been keeping up with this story (even quietly), and has been wondering on my tardiness of my usual release schedule. I had a lot of personal emergencies come up in my life that required my immediate and undivided attention. The worst of it is over, but I'm working twice as much to recover the time and money lost in resolving the situation, so I had to put this fic on hold until then. But, here I am with an update. I hope to be back on my usual release schedule soon. Thank you for your patience, and as always: leave one if you with me. ✌


	15. Chapter 15

Smuggler’s Cove was quiet, and not because it was bedding down for the night. No, when Samson returned to the ramshackle city, it was quiet in the same way it had been during the qunari occupation in Kirkwall shortly before they decided to subjugate it. It was quiet as the Temple of Mythal had been before the Inquisitor had come to stop him. Samson knew the quiet before a blood tide better than most, better than he was comfortable with.

Balor knew.

Samson had told Odette to do what she had to do while he went to arrange the meeting. He hated playing messenger but he figured it was a hell of a lot better than dying. He had faced a lot in his day, but he was in no condition to fight everyone on this Maker bedamned isle.

He did not need magic to tell him what he already knew. The suspicion Priam had cast upon him from the moment he set foot on _The Deliverance_ had not abated, even with their supposed alliance against Odette. Balor, for his part, merely was shrewd enough to know no templar would ever aid and abet a mage who had resorted to blood magic, even one fallen so far from grace as Samson.

So when Samson walked in, hoping the stink of betrayal did not cling to him too badly, he should not have been surprised when Priam took him across the face with his fist.

“I knew she’d sink her fangs in you the minute you set foot on that ship!” The other man swore,  but Samson was too canny to let him get another hit in. In fact, he was good and angry. An Inquisition soldier might have been justified in beating him within an inch of consciousness, but not Priam, who was just as low on the rung of society as he, if not lower for want of his pirating career.

He dodged the next blow easily, caught Priam by the arm, and kicked his knee to force him to a kneel. Samson’s grip was ironclad, and well-armored and angry, with a bloody nose, he was tired of playing games.

“You and your treacherous lot have caused me enough grief.” Samson growled, pressing his thumb into the tender strip of sinew that bent the wrist and cause Priam to cry out. “I never wanted to get involved but I let you fuckers use me so I can get back on course.”

He felt the tingle of a spell charging and immediately shunted it outside of his personal sphere with a powerful neutralizing counter. He heard Balor’s gasp as his mana was snuffed out and suppressed, like corking a bottle. Samson felt his blood burn as the lyrium came alive in him, bolstering his strength.

Samson made another decision, grinding Priam’s wrist bones in his gauntleted grip.

“I wasted weeks at sea when I could have just made straight for my goal. I played sailor for you, cabin boy even, scrubbing pots and dishes after every meal. I put up with Odette’s bitching and your goddamn scowl. I don’t owe you shit.”

He broke Priam’s wrist. He felt something like regret, but it was muffled, distant, as the ghost of a red storm rose up in him. Here were people to which he could direct his anger and frustration! Here were people who _deserved_ to meet their end at the point of his blade.

And then he felt it; the weight of that sorrowful gaze upon his back. What would she think of all this? Maker, he knew. Amidst Priam’s howls of pain as he cradled his ruined wrist, and Balor trying feebly to reach for his mana, for his stolen magic, Samson felt regret and guilt worm through him. He was not supposed to be this man anymore. Still, they deserved it didn’t they?

_Who are you to cast judgement?_ His conscience asked, accusatory, wearing _her_ voice. _Who are you to decide if these people live or die?_

Samson was reaching for his sword in that moment, unsheathing steel even as Priam stared at him, wide-eyed and trembling. He had not expect Samson to be as angry, or as ready to kill.

“Wait!” Balor cried, sounding weak and raw without the godmark of his stolen magic to thread his voice with power. “If you help us, I can get you to Val Chevin! Don’t kill him!”

Samson paused, casting his gaze at last to Balor, and hoping his scowl was enough to show the lad that templar or no, he would no longer be toyed with. He’d wear no chains he did not choose to wear.

“Tell me the truth, boy.” Samson said, ignoring Priam’s curses. “Why does Odette want your blood so badly? Who did you kill to drive her so mad with revenge?”

Balor hesitated. “I killed no one.” He said firmly. “I did…I merely cast a spell that bound her sisters to do my bidding.”

Samson frowned. The sirens in the Dragon’s Teeth. It made sense; no wonder Odette had been so adamant during that treacherous navigation. She was resistant to the call, but only by so much, being rendered human.

“The man from the story…” Samson said, realization dawning as he turned to face Balor in full. “That was you?”

“Not exactly.” Balor said. “I merely found a spell that would do the same thing for her. And I thought I could love her, but there is no loving something that has no capacity for it.”

Samson’s lip curled in revulsion.

“Couldn’t find a girl with legs to suck your cock and call it a day? You went and pissed off a bloody terror of the Maker bedamned deep?!” He shouted.

Balor at least had the decency to look somewhat shamed.

“There is nothing you can say to me that I have not already said to myself.” He said, lifting his chin in defiance.

Samson rubbed his face in exasperation. “For fuck’s sake…” He murmured. “And what does she want--aside from the obvious?”

“To rejoin her sisters, of course.” Balor said. “Though I don’t know if they’d accept her since she’s spent so much time playing at being human.”

Balor looked down at Priam, grimacing at his swollen and misshapen wrist. “Let me help him.” He said, but it was a plea if Samson ever heard one and he felt guilty for it. With a curt nod, he stepped aside, letting Balor work his healing magic.

Samson could tell it was not nearly as neat, clean, or painless as Hadiza’s. He could hear the bones resetting and knitting, and Priam’s grimace only confirmed that while Balor could command a legion of sirens with blood magic, he lacked the grace and finesse to make it quick and painless. Hadiza could have had the man’s wrist working better than before it was broken. Balor managed to at least make it functional, but Priam would never wield a blade with the same endurance ever again.

Samson wasn’t sorry for it. The man was alive, he’d not lament over a broken wrist.

“Well,” Balor said, attempting to help Priam to his feet, only to have the older man slap his hands away, “shall we?”

Samson said nothing. He hoped he made the right decision as he followed them out of the cavernous labyrinth into the open air. There, in the night, was the sound of screaming. Samson grimaced. Balor had used his voice to turn the folk of Smuggler’s Cove against the crew of _The Deliverance_ , and like as not Odette had planned for it and was butchering a path to the rogue mage. The trio waited, in abject horror—save Balor who wore a smile of triumph.

“By now half her crew is dead.” Balor drawled, his voice soaked with power that made Samson’s skin crawl and his hair stand on end. He reached for his neutralization abilities on instinct, but spun no sphere to silence the offensive magic.

“Don’t get cocky, boy.” Priam spat. “Odette may be mad with vengeance but she’s one of the slickest fighters I’ve ever seen, and none too few of the crew have learned to keep up or get dead.”

Balor eyed him sidelong. “Would you like to run back to her, Priam? You seem rather fond, for all your posturing.”

Priam did not back down. “I said I wasn’t going to die for her quest for vengeance, not that she was incompetent.”

Samson wanted to say that if this plan of theirs failed, he would die by her hand either way for his betrayal, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. He had learned, in these long years as the shit on the boot heel of everyone’s thoughts, the merit and import of reticence. He also wagered neither men wanted to know that tonight their blood would soak this fertile earth before the sun rose.

The screams died in the glow of smoke and fire, gurgling in a final cry to the unfeeling heavens. Samson waited for her to climb the rise to meet them, drenched in the blood of people who wanted no part in their private war. Samson knew Smuggler’s Cove harbored naught but cutthroats, brigands, and whores; folk whose company he would have shunned in his glory days; folk who _had_ shunned him when he was turned to naught but a beggar and a pale shadow of his former self; folk he would have mercilessly enslaved during his brutal march across Thedas, turning those with potential into gardens of red lyrium to harvest for his army.

All of them, he knew, were dying by the droves against the crew of _The Deliverance_.

And against the glow of the smoke and ruin of the shanty town, emerged not Odette but Tiberius.

To any who had not met a qunari, Tiberius would still be imposing, horns or no. He stood several heads taller than the tallest man in the clearing, and his features, heavy and severe with weariness. Samson wanted to be glad to see the old qunari’s face, but they stood, as of now, on opposite ends on what he knew to be a final battle.

He held up his hands as several other crew members came from hiding. The lyrium in his blood sang, and he readied himself accordingly.

“Well.” Balor said, grinning broadly as several of the gathered men winced from the caress of power in his voice. “Gang’s all here. But where, pray tell, is your fearless leader?”

Priam’s jaw set grimly as Tiberius lowered his gaze at him.

“You would betray the one who gave you purpose for this spineless thief and coward?” He asked. “Where is your honor?”

Priam spat, contemptuous. “We’re pirates, you no-horned bastard, not chevaliers. I signed on for profit, not to go hunting mages and breaking blood-curses.”

“And yet,” came the voice of their fearless leader, “is it not fortunate that I didn’t cleave your head from your shoulders the moment I realized you betrayed me?”

Odette stepped from behind the qunari like a smoke-born wraith, her good eye glowing like death’s candle in the hazy air, her mouth a wide slash, her teeth too sharp to be human, like razor-edged bone…the kind one found washed upon the beaches.

Samson knew fear, despite the choice he’d made.

“Odette!” Balor’s voice was felt like a warm pour of water over the heads of those who were not wise enough to stop their ears. Samson saw a crimson sheen under Odette’s nostrils and he wondered how stark, raving pissed she had to be to have her own power turned against her like that.

“You’ll pardon me,” Priam said, “if I don’t see it that way. I tried to tell you to give up this fool’s errand. Tried to tell you that you had a good thing going but your damned magic is more important than the lives of those who serve you.”

Odette said nothing, her expression hovering somewhere between amusement and something Samson couldn’t quite place. She did not answer Priam’s accusations, but she did reach behind her back and withdraw the strangest thing Samson had ever seen.

It was a weapon, of that he was certain. Still, it was a strange weapon, to be sure. It was shaped like a serpent in motion, wickedly curved, ending in a point. The blade--for that is what it was--glimmered in the dying light. Odette held it from its center hilt, and when she spun the blade easily over her hand, it gave the illusion of a slithering serpent, and Samson was briefly reminded of the glimpses of scales and tails rolling beneath the waves.

He saw Balor’s throat bob in a hard swallow.

“Odette,” Priam said, “no one need die. No one should have to die for a mistake you made.”

If Priam had hoped to appeal to humanity in a woman who was far from it, he was met with the gaze of what Samson had referred to as a terror of the deep. There was something shifting beneath her skin, like she was only truly alive beneath it. Handprints, like claws, moved beneath her flesh, reaching. Priam went white as a sheet.

Samson felt the charge of a spell, something older, like the pull of nature against one’s will. He spun a neutralization around himself in time to see the crew beginning to draw their weapons, grimacing. Even Priam was fighting the urge but Balor was armed with the voice stolen from a siren and Odette found herself outnumbered.

Blood oozed from one of her nostrils and she spun the snake blade rhythmically in her hand. Samson knew she was outnumbered. Priam had spoken of her prowess, but Samson did not think she’d last against sheer numbers.

“Will you kill them all just to get to me, Odette?” Balor asked, his voice raw with the naked power that Samson felt on the edge of his sphere like a god’s hand looking to crush him. Such power should not have been in a mage’s hands...but Odette was dauntless.

“Yes.” She said.

Samson shut his eyes and swore softly.

_Someone better thank me for this, don’t much care who._ He thought and drew his sword.

He sensed Balor’s alarm at the sound of steel ringing clear of its sheath, and the mage turned to him, eyes blazing.

“Once a templar, always a templar.” He sneered. “I knew you didn’t have the stomach for it.”

Samson smiled grimly. “You’ve no idea what I have the stomach for, boy. But I’ve served enough power-mad mages to last more than one lifetime. I’ll not serve another.”

Balor let out a swear that would have been right at home in this place had it not been a smoking ruin, and then all hell broke loose.

Under the sway of the false siren call, the crew of _The Deliverance_ converged on Odette and Samson both. Odette was quick--Maker she was like a loosed arrow!--rolling between Tiberius’ planted legs, striking at the backs of his knees before he could scarce swing his axe. The big qunari dropped to one knee, struggling against his will to continue his onslaught, but Odette had wounded him enough to slow him.

“Don’t kill them!” She shouted as Samson swung his sword, and turned it to slap one reckless pirate with the flat of the blade, sending him sprawling. Great.

The notion of not being able to the kill the crew had likely been what Balor was hoping for, and as Samson leaned on the training of his templar days--to subdue and not kill--he saw out of the corner of his eye as Balor slipped back into the tunnels. Samson did not doubt that Balor had an escape route planned, and as the ranks closed around him and Odette, a whirlwind of blades and fury, Samson barreled through, shield and sword at his fore.

“Where are you going?” Odette demanded.

“Balor’s on the run!” Samson called. “If you kill him, we can break his hold on the crew!”

Odette swore, but followed. Samson hoped he was not making a grave mistake.

* * *

The Grand Cathedral was quiet when Hadiza arrived. Etienne had begrudgingly allowed her to wash and dress herself in a dignified manner, and barring the garishness of the collar at her throat bearing the heavy piece of the Seer’s Star, he exerted no control. However, when she stepped from the carriage to ascend the stairs, he took her by the arm, making her glance up sharply.

“If you play me false,” he warned, “I will have your companions slain by their own hands.”

Hadiza said nothing but bathed him in the icy fire of a glare before snatching her arm from his grasp and making her way inside.

It had been a long time since the Chantry was a sanctuary to her, and she felt some relief as the lay sisters came to fetch her to stand before the Divine. For once, Hadiza did not mind the formality if it meant she could gain the ear of someone who could put a stop to whatever machinations were at work.

Hadiza had thought she would be granted a formal audience with Divine Victoria, and had prepared her words that she might speak freely before the Sunburst Throne. She was surprised, however, when the lay sister whose name she never learned, took her to a smaller room, but no less grand. She noted, with a mixture of grim satisfaction and apprehension that the guards were templars. Leliana had retained the order as her personal honor guard, while dissolving the Circles entirely, instating the College of Enchanters. It was a point of contention between Hadiza and Vivienne for this choice, and betimes Hadiza wondered if she had made the right decision.

And then she remembered the horror that had been the accounts from Kirkwall, and the rebellion that had finally come to Ostwick, which had remained loyal until the bitter end.

Leliana was clad in her robes of office, crown and all, and when she turned, Hadiza bowed, deep and respectful. Leliana dismissed the lay sister, who shut the door to the room behind her.

“Most Holy.” Hadiza greeted. Leliana smiled wryly.

“Get up,” she said, “I’ll not stand on ceremony with the one who put me here to begin with.”

Hadiza rose, sighing.

“Good, because we’ve no time for pleasantries, I’m afraid.” She said quickly. Leliana’s brows rose.

“Indeed. The news from Skyhold regarding your current predicament has been troubling. Ariadne fears your life is in danger.”

Hadiza laughed. “When is my life not in danger? No, Most Holy, my life is in danger, but that is the least of it. I believe our invite to this ballet is part of a much larger plot to seize power from the Inquisition.”

Leliana’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

“Etienne de Piedmont has been holding me hostage in his estate for the past few weeks, and has the entirety of the realm convinced that he and I are in love.” Hadiza scoffed, fiddling with the emerald at her throat. “He has managed, I think, to convince my companions of this as well. Save Cullen, but--”

“Cullen is the one who sent for me, actually.” Leliana interrupted. Hadiza’s brows rose in surprise. “He thought it would be less likely that the Comte would turn away a summons from the Divine. It pays to have friends in high places.”

“Indeed it does.” Hadiza said. “In any case, he is not the issue. I believe he is working for someone far more powerful. His family’s debts are too deep for him to have been able to contract Visage du Soleil on his own, and he has born the Inquisition no ill-will.”

“True, but you know better than most that loyalties shift with the wind if they’re weak enough.” Leliana said, running her fingertips over the lacquered wood of the grand desk she stood by. Hadiza paced the carpeted floor with an exasperated sigh.

“Yes, but apprehending Etienne will only force his benefactor to go to ground...I want to pin the snake by its head, not its belly.” She said, frustration limning her voice. Leliana nodded.

“I understand.” She said softly. “But you know we must tread carefully. Tell me more of the Seer’s Star.”

Hadiza pursed her lips. “Not much I can tell you, I’m afraid. Only that it’s large and Visage du Soleil--or rather, their employer--plans to use it to...control people somehow.” She touched the emerald at her throat. “This is but a small piece of it, but Etienne has been using it to bind my magic somehow, and my voice.”

Leliana seemed to go still with surprise. “Your magic and your voice? Sounds like we’re dealing with a mage, not a chevalier.”

“Chevaliers train as templars do,” Hadiza replied, “but I have reason to believe the director of Visage du Soleil is the mage responsible for this bit of magic.”

Leliana was still quiet but Hadiza had come to understand that she was thinking.

“Alright.” The Divine said after a long stretch of moments. “Unfortunately, I cannot simply send my people into the Comte’s estate without verifiable proof of this magic or this plot. We’ve only your word and a trinket to go on. And you and I both know neither will hold up in the eyes of the world.”

Hadiza ran her fingers through her hair. “After all this world has seen in the last year, they would hold one of their own beyond reproach.”

“Because as far as the world is concerned: he is.” Leliana said forcefully. “Comte de Piedmont remained loyal to the Empress and fought alongside the Inquisition during the war in the Arbor Wilds. You and I know that your current...affair with the Red General will place you at fault for this.”

Hadiza swore. Loudly.

“Will no one leave it be?” She demanded. “He’s not even _here_! Maker damn it all, can I not just…”

She sat down on one of the cushioned divans, her face in her hands. Leliana hesitated, and then sat beside her.

“He knows the rumors have sullied your name enough that any unauthorized action taken against him will be seen as an abuse of your power.” She explained. “We must play this out until the end.”

“But it may be too late if we cannot see who we play against, Leliana!” Hadiza snapped. “I...if you cannot apprehend him, then at least help me find out who is higher up that is funding his venture. Someone must know. Someone will talk. They always do.”

Leliana looked grim, her gaze focused on some distant point in the room. The sunlight shafted through the windows like fingers, illuminating the delicate painted vases bearing illustrated stories of Andraste’s crusade. Motes of dust danced within the shafts of light, and it reminded Hadiza of snow for some reason.

“You have to understand, Hadiza,” Leliana said quietly, “as Divine there is only so much I can do. I cannot have it seen that I am favoring you, or that there is any reason to believe that it is the Inquisition that controls the Sunburst Throne. I will do what I can to ferret out the information you require. And I will tell Dorian to find what he can on this...Seer’s Star. It sounds dangerous.”

Hadiza nodded. “Thank you, Most Holy. Alert the others that we are to continue as planned. I am in love with Comte de Piedmont, and have opted to make of his estate a lovenest.”

“You managed to suppress the bile this time.” Leliana teased. Hadiza eyed her sidelong.

“I have had precious little to eat today. Not much to suppress. At any rate he keeps me chained like a dog.”

Leliana frowned. “What?!”

“I tried to escape. He does not seem to trust that I will not try again.” Hadiza stood, smoothing out her skirts. “He is right, of course, for when I am freed and my magic unbound, I am going to spear his head on my blade and set it afire.”

Leliana raised a brow. “Such talk from the Inquisitor of Pacifism? What has changed?”

Hadiza’s lip curled. “There is a time when one must extend a hand in mercy and compassion, and there is a time one must make a fist and crush opposition. I would that it had not come to the latter, Most Holy, but if what Etienne and his consortium plan is what I think it is, then I’m going to need both fists ere this hellish visit is over.”

Leliana smiled. “Captivity suits you, Inquisitor.”

Hadiza gave a hard smile. She did not disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyways. Leave one if you with me. ✌


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justice is served.

The caverns within the mountains were not as intricate as Samson thought, but were intricate enough that he knew Balor had planned this all along, and that irked him to no end. If Odette had not extracted his word in allowing her to exact the killing blow, Samson would have taken Balor out himself.

Part of him still wanted to; the templar part of him; that deep-seated training that told him everything about this was wrong, and the only way to right it was by the end of a blade.

“He will be heading for the grottos.” Odette said, slightly winded as she caught up to him. “I...know the way.”

Samson’s eyes went wide when he saw her clutching her side, blood seeping between her fingers. Her dusky skin was ashen with fatigue, sweat clammy on her brow, her mouth set in a grimace.

“You’ll strike no killing blow with an injury like that.” Samson said. “Let me kill him and have done with it. Mages are what I was trained to fight anyway.”

Odette laughed, wincing as she clutched her wounded side tighter.

“I would believe that if I did not know the story of how you are besotted with the Inquisitor. No, templar, it must be I who kills Balor. We’re wasting time. Come on.”

She moved quickly despite her injury, and left with little choice, Samson followed. The caverns winded through the heart of the mountain, and Samson felt as if he were back in Kirkwall, without the press of bodies, the smell, or the the taste of blood that seemed to be constantly in the air.

The caverns inspired the same sense of being closed in, and for a moment of abject horror, Samson was reminded too of the Deep Roads, and the untold dangers they held. He suddenly longed for the sky above, longed for the glimpse of the stars, and inwardly felt the wild panic of wanting to turn back.

But he remembered the promise to himself that he would never let himself be steered by mere emotions ever again.

The cavern opened up to a grotto, a small pier, and Balor preparing his boat to leave. He looked up, and Samson barely had time to spin a nullification sphere before the mage shouted an immolation spell. Samson grabbed Odette, ignoring her cry and curse, and shielded them both as the flames splashed against his raised shield. Holding Odette close, he pressed forward through the flames.

Balor shrieked another spell, but the glyph appeared and then flickered as Samson dispelled it, continuing his press.

“When his next spell dissipates, I’ll drain his mana, you go in for the kill.” Samson said to Odette through gritted teeth, his sweat rolling down his temples and forehead into his eyes, making them sting.

Balor reading another spell, and Samson smelled the familiar storm that heralded a static cage.

Without warning, he shoved Odette forward, watching her roll as the spell closed in. Samson watched as the lightning struck against the sphere, sizzling out before it reached him. Balor, in the midst of casting, did not have time to split his awareness.

Samson smiled. Hadiza would have shunted off her mana to catch Odette unawares while Samson remained trapped in the static cage. She would have layered her spells of ice and lightning, freezing both targets and striking at the moving target.

Balor lacked such finesse, and so Odette, still bleeding, rose like some figment of vengeance, blade whirling.

Blood flew on the air, a few drops splattering into the water, and onto the wood of the pier. Odette stumbled from the effort, falling to one knee as Balor’s hands twitched, flying to hit throat as blood spilled down the front of his robes. Samson watched as the static cage dissipated, and Odette reached forward, pulling Balor down to her level.

“I hope…” She breathed, “In these last agonizing moments you have left, that you know your body will never burn on a pyre, that not even your bones will know peace as I and my sisters pick what remains of you in our teeth with them.”

Samson grimaced at the imagery, but then he saw them: the sirens.

Odette lifted her blade and cut off Balor’s head. Samson did not look away, not even when she tossed the severed head into the water where he saw flashes of scales, heard unearthly shrieks as a frenzy was started. With her boot, she shoved the body into the water and that too was taken.

Odette was still as Samson came to her.

She stood and turned to face him and Samson took a step back in alarm. Her face was human and not, her nose little more than slits that contracted and released with each breath. Her eyes were bigger, though one was still scarred and milky white, and the other glowed like a lantern lure. Her mouth was still wide, but when she smiled, her teeth were serrated fangs. Scales of iridescent colors crawled along her throat and the side of her face, and her ears were pointed and webbed.

Yet she had no tail.

“You’ve no cause to fear.” She said and Samson felt something in his bones that  _hurt_. His instinct screamed in alarm. Was she a demon? An abomination? He could not make sense of it.

Tiberius emerged into the grotto, first, followed by the rest of the crew that remained. They held Priam bound by chains.

“Why didn’t she turn into a mermaid?” Samson heard himself wonder, the question sounding incredibly daft even to his ears.

Tiberius stood by him. “You played a dangerous game.” He said simply. Samson did not smile.

“Didn’t know it would happen like this,” he admitted, “just wanted it over with.”

“As did we all,” Tiberius said, “you have righted a great wrong this day.”

Samson glanced at Odette, who came to join them. He managed a smile, but hers was…sinister-looking. Whatever she had become, it was not human, nor was she fully siren.

“You have fulfilled your end of the bargain,” she said, and Samson could not shake the underlying melody of it, the power that was old, so old that the Chantry had regulated such magic to fairy tales. “It is my hope that I can fulfill my end.”

“Then we’re settled, then?” Samson asked. Odette gave him that unnerving smile.

“For your assistance, I shall take you directly to Val Royeaux.”

Samson smirked. It was about damned time.

* * *

Etienne was furious and Hadiza was living for it.

Whatever conversation was had with Divine Victoria, he could neither pry it from her lips or force it. As such, the balance of power had in fact shifted in her favor. With his fear of discovery palpable, he released her from captivity, confining her to the estate with an escort for when she wished to go into the city. Hadiza enjoyed the luxuries of freedom once more, riding Nyx about the Piedmont estate with a carelessness that came with knowing they had power.

He had not, however, unbound her magic, and he did take her voice when they dined together. Hadiza allowed it, for inwardly she had promised to kill him. Even if he was not complicit, he still took joy in causing her discomfort and harm.

Hadiza shuddered to think on it, but men had died for much less than that.

So she endured the restrictions, and was elated when Thom called upon her at the chateau, with the fete a week away. She was surprised, of course, but relieved. Etienne turned up his nose at him of course, but allowed it. Hadiza and Thom took the horses out to ride the grounds as they spoke.

“The Most Holy told us of your problem.” He said, laughing. “I’m just wondering why you let him go on so long? Not like you to play the long game.”

Hadiza sighed. “My magic is bound and he turned out to be more of a chevalier than I gave him credit for. We are all playing the Game right now. He knows we know, but how we handle it determines whether or not Orlais will be on our doorsteps, waving their swords and shouting for us to disband.”

Thom laughed. “After we’ve pulled their heads outta their asses and their asses out of the fire? They should thank us for coming back at all.”

Hadiza tossed the thick cabled braid of her hair over one shoulder.

“I feel the same, believe you me. But as of now, our hands are tied. Has Dorian found anything on the Seer’s Star, yet?”

Thom scratched his beard thoughtfully.

“Turns out there is an artifact called the Seer’s Star, but there’s an issue with that: it shouldn’t exist.”

Hadiza’s brows went up. “Why not? Feels bloody real enough to me!”

Thom nodded. “That’s the thing: according to every text Dorian knows about the artifact, he says the thing went missing over 800 years ago and hadn’t been seen since.”

Hadiza sucked her teeth in annoyance, her hand going to the emerald at her throat.

“So what? You think it might be a fake? Some trickery masquerading as the real thing?”

Thom shrugged. “I’m not the one you should be asking, milady. According to Dorian,  _if_ the one you saw was the real thing, then we’re going to have to do something about it before the premier.”

Hadiza halted again, and her expression became pensive. Thom watched her, wondering.

“You’re right.” She said quietly. “I have an idea. See to it that a message gets to Cullen and the others.”

Thom smiled. “Another one of your ideas that’s like to get us all killed?”

Hadiza smiled back, lifting her chin, her smile turning to a smug grin.

“All of us? No. You? Ha! If you die on this assignment I will banish you to count grains of sand in the Hissing Wastes.”

Thom raised his brows.

“I’ll do my best to please, my lady. But I’ll not go swinging from chandeliers and riding dragons. There’s some things even I can’t do.”

Hadiza tossed her head back in a laugh.

“Well, be prepared nonetheless. We’re going to show this Comte and his consortium exactly who they are dealing with.”

Thom chuckled. He had a feeling Hadiza would ask more of him before his visit was over.

“And how are you?” He asked her. “I know you’re biding time until you’re ready to make your move, but this can’t be easy on you either.”

Hadiza’s smile softened at the edges and she tilted her head, shrugging, haloed by the weak and watery sun at her back.

“I suppose it is hard. Etienne is dangerous, more than I anticipated, and I am lucky that his patron needs me alive for now, else I fear I may have already provoked him into killing me.”

Thom frowned. “You don’t have to subject yourself to this. You could kill him and have done with it.”

“And risk his master going to ground?” Hadiza asked. “No. If it pleases him to lord his strength and power over me--and he does--then let him believe he has his victory secured.”

Her silver eyes flashed, her smile fading. Thom glimpsed the rarity that was the steel that comprised the framework of Hadiza’s essence. She was a flower, a touch of silken gentility to the roughness of the world, but she was as sharp as any blade, and her eyes were hard.

“When the time comes, and all behind this plot are revealed, I will have their heads.” She said and there was something in her voice that chilled his blood.

“Then let’s hope your victory comes swiftly.” Was all he said.

* * *

The journey back to  _The Deliverance_ was a long and tense one despite the island’s tiny size. The trek was due more to the injured and the dead, and none too few of the crew had to be supported by their shipmates to make it back to the pier.

The town was quiet, and Samson saw the bodies of the townsfolk here and there. He wondered how many still lived now that the siren spell Balor had cast was broken. All around them, smoke and soot choked the air, and Samson heard moans of pain, coughs, from those who had survived the onslaught as they wound a path through the shanty town’s husked remains.

“They can rebuild,” Tiberius said beside him, “we did our best to leave enough that it would be so.”

Samson said nothing, caught in the memory of his own death-dealing, when innocents were caught in the red storm of his rage and ambition. Men, women, and--he recalled with deep pang of regret--children. He could not deny what he was in that moment: a monster.

No, what he had been. But the distance between the man who walked amidst Smuggler’s Cove’s smoked bones and the man who had promised to bring the Inquisitor’s head to his ancient darkspawn master was not so great. In fact, all it had taken was a moment of unchecked rage to nearly merge the two. Samson felt in that moment the perfect blade that was self-loathing; how its serrated edges cut him to the marrow, laying open the ugliness that had twisted and embittered his entire soul.

He felt barren, unable to cultivate anything. He had foolishly thought he could find kinship with these men and women who fought and bled and died for their captain, who was no more human than Samson was noble.

Nor would he ever find kinship in the Inquisition, where the Chantry’s faithful marched beneath the banner of the all-seeing eye, believing so blindly that Hadiza would lead them to salvation.

Salvation from the damnation he had brought, blazing a trail like some god of war.

His stomach was a knot by the time they reached the docks, and he embarked behind the rest of the crew.

Odette was last, after Priam, who was led in chains by Tiberius. They gathered beneath the mizzenmast while she addressed them from the quarterdeck.

“Words cannot encompass my gratitude for your loyalty this night.” Odette said, and Samson swore she never raised her voice about a murmur, but everyone seemed to hear it clearly as if she stood before each of them. The surviving crew members, no worse for wear, but bone-weary, listened closely.

“Many of you may be wondering what shall become of me now that you see me as I truly am. What shall become of you, as well.” Odette tilted her head, letting the glow of the ship’s lanterns illuminate her scales, the milky white of her blind eye, and the sharp contours of her inhuman face.

“You’ve no cause to fear betrayal from me.” Odette continued. “As you well know, I only ever reward loyalty.” She leveled her incandescent gaze at Priam who had gone white as a sheet. “And punish betrayal with unflinching prejudice.”

Tiberius shoved Priam forward as Odettes descended the steps to stand before him. Samson was reminded of his own reckoning, kneeling before a throne of iron and velvet, of silver eyes hard within a dark face, and of that fleeting, soft glimpse of a terrible and deep compassion that made his heart hurt to think about.

There was no throne of iron and velvet, and the eyes were white and yellow, and there was no trace of compassion or sympathy in Odette’s face. Samson thought in that moment that perhaps there was a Maker, to have spared him from a worse fate.

“Priam,” Odette said, and her voice was soaked in power, and everyone shifted to it like flowers to the sun, “you were one of the first to join me, and together we freed others who would be used for sport and banal entertainment in the Imperium.”

Priam glared up at her.

“You would have gotten us all killed chasing that damned mage.” He said harshly. “We had a good thing going, and you admitted in front of this whole crew you’d burn it all to ashes just to get your power back.”

Samson wondered not for the first time if Priam was right. Odette had commanded loyalty without her magic, and she had been willing to kill her own crew to get it back...and yet here they stood.

“That is the thing about loyalty, Priam,” Odette said, her voice like a cold wind over an open grave, “it requires a bit of  _faith_ to work.”

Samson felt the word pierce him to the marrow and grunted. His insides churned, and he watched Priam grimace too, but he knew in that moment the word pierced him much harder. Whatever displays of a siren’s power Balor had displayed were but child’s play compared to the siren herself, born and bred to the old magic as a fish to the sea, as a bird taking wing.

What he felt as conflict in his heart, what her crew felt as reassurance and affirmation in their bones, Priam felt as excruciating pain. Odette had fallen silent but the voice never did. She watched Priam writhe in agony, her lips never moving, her eye as sharp as a hawk at the sight of tender prey. There was all the eagerness and fathomless hunger of the sea’s tossing, tortured expanse in her eyes, as old as the world, and yet...it was not a hunger that discriminated. Odette held within herself a power that simply  _was_.

Priam sagged in his bonds, wrung limp with exhaustion and pain.

He did not look up at her.

Odette met Tiberius’ eyes.

“Take him to the brig.”

Samson watched as Priam was hauled belowdecks. He did not ask what would become of him, but part of him knew it would be a short time spent on  _The Deliverance_. Odette motioned to him to follow her to her stateroom, giving a curt order for the ship to be cast off and underway within the hour.

In the more brightly lit captain’s quarters, Odette’s inhuman features were far more pronounced. Her scales shone like a prettied rash, crawling up her throat and jaw line, as if her human half was slowly being consumed by the beast she truly was.

“I will take you to Val Royeaux,” Odette said without preamble, “and the Ghost will likely have my crew’s hide for delaying you.”

Samson frowned. “How did you and the Ghost ever cross...paths?” He asked, genuinely and morbidly curious.

With her power restored, Odette was far more amiable, but twice as dangerous. She sat at her desk and propped her feet up.

“I helped her a long time ago, when she most needed it.” She said simply. Samson thanked whoever was listening that she did not use her god-mark.

“So this…” He gestured vaguely toward the island. “This was to be her mission. Her favor to you.”

Odette smirked and Samson swore a blue streak at having been conned so thoroughly.

“Oh don’t fret!” Odette laughed, and the sound was like being doused in ice water. Samson shivered involuntarily, his temper dying like a flame in a downpour.

“You acquitted yourself well,” Odette continued, “and not without some semblance of cunning. I am almost beginning to believe your choice in master was not mere cowardice.”

She toyed idly with a dagger taken from Maker knew where. Samson’s cheeks bloomed with anger, his eyes blazing. There was nothing that made him feel so low as having been used like some tool to be discarded when he was no longer needed.

“Fix your face.” Odette said, and her voice hardened in his blood, making him groan in pain. His joints ached worse than anything, and then suddenly they were soothed, yet Odette never spoke.

“I have been in contact with the Ghost and she tells me your lady has been taken hostage by the Comte de Piedmont.”

That alone did what no siren’s vocals could: it sobered him.

Samson’s rage and fury gathered like a dark cloud, and he felt himself made of steel set aflame. The thought of some smug Orlesian fop taking Hadiza hostage made him angry, but it frightened him. Hadiza was notoriously difficult in a fight, so to not only subdue her but capture her was no simple feat. Even he had failed to truly do much beyond the scar that marred her skull.

He had to ask. “Is she…?”

“She’s in good health, if you must know.” Odette said, amused at his restraint, at the tightness of his jaw, the bob of his throat, the weariness in him that hovered beneath the surface of the  _love_ he exuded like some pungent  _stink_. It disgusted her, and yet, it fascinated her even now.

“But you must make haste if you are to make it to the Comte’s fete.” Odette chuckled. “Since your original route is out of the question...I and my crew will offer our services to you in return for your aiding me. Jean Luc will need an entourage, after all.”

Samson’s rage cooled long enough for him to remember he had a mission. Jean Luc. Yes, that was to be his cover...he laughed at the absurdity his life had become.

_Princess,_ he thought laughing in helpless despair,  _I’m coming for you._

“Alright,” he said, “you’ve a deal, but how are you going to hide what you are?”

“Orlais is the Masked Empire, Samson,” she laughed, and there was that feeling again, pouring down his spine, making his knees turn to water.

He coughed, trying to shake the sensation her voice inspired.

“You must love her very much to endure all of this.” Odette said softly, and Samson swallowed hard, clearing his throat, but he did not answer, nor did Odette compel him to.

“Did you love Balor?” He asked, feeling bold. Surprisingly, Odette did not shatter his bones with her voice, but there was something in her that surfaced, hard and pitiless.

“Not in a way humans would understand. I loved him as the sea does the storm. But he was no storm, in the end. Just another mortal grasping as a power that he had no right to.”

Samson stared at his feet, burning with shame. Odette watched him, her eye narrowing.

“Of course, you know how that feels.” She said and Samson frowned. It was no less than he deserved, truly, but it still did not lessen the sting to his already crumbling pride to have complete strangers able to twist the knife in his gut on a whim.

Odette jerked her chin to the door. “Go, Jean Luc. Prepare your farce for the trial ahead. We’ve a few days until you must be in Val Royeaux. There will be time to brood, later.”

Samson went. It was not until much later, when they were well and truly at sea, and he lay curled in his hammock, that he realized he had not used her power to compel him during their talk.

It did not comfort him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave one if you with me. ✌


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadiza has an interesting encounter or two at the spa, and Samson sets his sights on Val Royeaux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Be forewarned, there's some sexual harassment on account of no consent given, as well as vulgar language and imagery, so if that makes you uncomfortable be forewarned.

The day before the Comte’s fête, while servants and contractors swarmed the estate to prepare, Vivienne took Hadiza to the spa, Chateau Elan, which was outside of Val Royeaux, nestled like a jewel atop of a hill that overlooked the city from afar. When Hadiza was escorted along the way, Vivienne gave her a knowing smile.

Hadiza flushed, she could not help it. There was somewhat about Vivienne that made one crave her smile, her approval, perhaps a touch of her delicate fingertips.

She sank into the cushions.

“How do you feel, my dear?” Vivienne asked. “You look healthy enough given the Comte’s amorous proclivities.”

“I feel fine, Vivienne,” Hadiza said, sighing, “I am just frustrated, is all. With a word I could crush him and yet he has woven a web of intrigue around us and I cannot see the damned spider that waits for us.”

Vivienne smirked. “That is why we are laying careful bait, darling. Like as not our ‘spider’ will be in attendance at the fete. Half the court will be. All it takes is a little patience.”

Hadiza snorted, and was relieved when Vivienne did not shoot her one of her signature reproachful looks.

And soon Chateau Elan came into view.

Hadiza was taken aback by the tranquil beauty of it. Whatever else Orlais was, it did not lack for artistry in its architecture and carefully curated landscapes.

Hadiza peered out of the carriage window, wanting to cling to the renewed awe and wonder she’d felt when first she set foot in Val Royeaux. Yet, as they trundled up the gravel drive, through the gilded, filigree gates, Hadiza felt the wonderment fade, receding like a tide sucking at an indifferent shore. The grounds were beautiful and should have moved her.

 _Enemies abounds_. She remembered Morrigan saying when they’d met at the Winter Palace a year and more ago. She frowned and sat back against her seat.

“Wrinkles.” Vivienne admonished. Hadiza twisted her face into a false smile. What little wonder and awe she’d momentarily had for Orlais was devoured by her frustration and anger. How had a man as devoted to loyalty as Etienne de Piedmont turned out to be so vile? And who was his benefactor?

“--listening?” Vivienne’s voice was a swell of tenderness as Hadiza came back to herself. She blinked, a waking dreamer amidst as well-crafted nightmare of polished marble, gold gilt, and delicate ivy crawling along the walls.

“Sorry.” Hadiza murmured. “Just thinking is all.”

“Well that’s enough of that,” Vivienne laughed, “it’s time to get polished. La Fienne may have counseled for chastity and purity, but that does not mean we can not have your beauty shine like a star amongst ordinary gems, darling.”

Hadiza’s cheeks warmed. “And you?”

Vivienne laughed, gesturing with her hand.

“I am the sun, Hadiza. But you are the Inquisitor, and as such, must be given room to display that title and all it entails.”

Hadiza rolled her eyes.

“I suppose. So long as I get a hot bath and an oiled massage.”

“And so much more, darling.” Vivienne’s voice was filled with wicked promise and Hadiza smiled again.

When they arrived, they were of course greeted by servants who wore perhaps the plainest of masks Hadiza had seen in Orlais. She had become familiar that only the servants of the peerage indulged in the mask culture, with the masks signifying fealty to whomever they served and the role they played.

The attendants of Chateau Elan wore masks of soft, ivory white, but the lips and rims of the eyelets were trimmed in gold. Upon closer inspection, Hadiza realized it was not gold but simple lamee fabric.

“Madame de Fer,” one of the attendants greeted as the rest bowed, “as always it is our pleasure to have you. And you, Your Worship, it is an honor to attend.”

Hadiza, having had her fill of the empty obsequious pleasantries that seemed to comprise the bones of Orlesian luxury living, offered a single nod of acknowledgement. She did not know if her enemies lay in wait amidst those masked faces.

 _No,_ she thought, taking a page from Ariadne’s book, _better to let them believe I am complacent. I will show them my teeth soon enough._

They were led inside, and Hadiza was greeted by the sight of decadence at its finest. The pristine halls were quiet, save for the sound of a bubbling fountain in the inner courtyard. Hadiza smelled the scent of jasmine, which floated in the fountain’s pool.

“Phillip,” Vivienne said airily, “is my usual room available?”

The lead attendant glanced over his shoulder, never breaking his stride.

“But of course, Madame Vivienne, and we have of course reserved the Inquisitor a suite as well.”

“Very good.” Vivienne said curtly. She turned to Hadiza, then, her expression gentle, soft and dark eyes rife with concern.

“Do try to enjoy yourself, my dear,” she murmured, “there will be time enough for the work to be done. But we need you at your best tomorrow.”

Hadiza couldn’t help the lump in her throat. She nodded wordlessly, and with a smile that was affection and what Hadiza thought was mild flirtation Vivienne left her in the hands of the attendants.

“This way, Your Worship.” A masked female attendant said and Hadiza followed.

The tour of Chateau Elan was a good one, and Hadiza was caught up in the artistry of it all. She had expected to be reminded—sourly—of Visage du Soleil, but she was pleased and relieved at the atmosphere. Everything, from the choice of flower arrangements, to the intricate patterns of the mosaic tiles was chosen to evoke relaxation. Hadiza could smell the balmy scent of lavender, which grew, fragrant and bountiful, in huge potted clusters.

“Well, well, well…” A voice said, “I had not expected you to slip from Comte de Piedmont’s attentions for this long.”

Hadiza’s hackles rose in alarm and she tasted the telltale ash of anger in her mouth. The attendant stopped, and then bowed.

“Your Grace.” She said from behind her mask.

Duke Ghislain de Bettencourt stood wearing naught but a towel around his waist and his mask. He watched Hadiza like a slaked wolf.

“Your Grace.” Hadiza greeted, her tone reserved, and her expression hard. Ghislain made his way toward her, ignoring the attendant entirely.

“I must say, despite the circumstance, it is good to see you again.” He chuckled. “Doubtless you do not feel likewise. No matter, enjoy the spa. The masseuses here are to die for.”

Hadiza narrowed her eyes, leaning back as he reached for her, intending to catch a lock of her hair between his fingers. Thwarted, Ghislain chuckled darkly, moving past her. Hadiza took a deep breath, snorting through her nose.

The attendant was trembling. Hadiza frowned, concerned.

“Are you alright?” She asked, her tone genuine as she momentarily forgot the encounter—and where she was.

The attendant stood, hands wringing.

“Y-yes.” She said. “Come, let us get you to your chambers.”

Hadiza was still concerned, but she said no more of it, opting to continue to her chambers. The suite was sumptuous, lit and warmed by braziers which burned incense of bluish-white smoke that curled and spiraled toward the frescoed ceiling and out of the unobtrusive windows high above.

“You may undress,” the attendant said, “a bath will begin your session, with oils of your choice.”

“Rose.” Hadiza said automatically. The attendant tilted her head.

“Very well, then.” She said, and left. Hadiza began to undress, shrugging out of her jacket, and then unbuttoning her blouse. She set her clothing on the marble bench along the wall, and once naked, stretched and smiled as her skin was warmed by the braziers. A silken robe was provided, and she donned it as her attendant came to pull the chain that would run the water into the bathing pool, already ensorcelled with runes along its walls. The water was soft from the look of it, and smelled of the clean, distinct scent of fresh roses. Hadiza smiled, and forgetting herself, shrugged out of the robe.

The attendant hesitated momentarily, but then resumed, sprinkling the bath with the blood red petals of roses. A tray containing an assortment of hair oils and cakes of soap carved into the shape of blooming roses, was brought out as Hadiza descended into the steaming bath. She sank down with a gratified sigh.

“Will you require anything else, Your Worship?” The attendant asked.

Hadiza smiled, shaking her head.

“No,” she said, “that will be all. How do I summon you when I am ready?”

The attendant gestured to the other rope across from her. The red cord was tasseled and shot through with golden thread.

“Ah.” Hadiza said smiling. “Thank you.” She waved dismissively, and bowing, the attendant left.

Hadiza was alone in the sumptuous bathing chamber, and for once it brought her no comfort. For one, she missed the company of Samson, and the pleasure they shared together. She was tightly wound, and she needed a release if she was to approach the Game with a fresh mind. Etienne had kept her too long under stress and worry, and felt she deserved some measure of complete relaxation.

She sank deeper into the bath, sighing as her thoughts, for once, turned from her duties and to more…pleasurable pursuits.

It seemed as if she were just drifting off to sleep when an attendant cleared her throat to get her attention. Hadiza’s eyes fluttered open and she blinked slowly, heavy-lidded. The water was still as steamed and warm as if it had just been drawn. Realizing that it must have been at least an hour, Hadiza rose, heedless of her nudity, and the female attendant passed her a towel to dry off. She stepped from the bath, leaning over to wring out her waterlogged hair, before wrapping it in the self-same towel.

“Is nudity allowed?” She asked the attendant. The masked face nodded once and Hadiza smiled. It felt much better, although a nice thin robe would not have been amiss. She was led to the massage room, which was a more intimate space than she expected. There was a sleigh bed against one wall, lavishly appointed, with an ornately carved headboard and footboard, depicting a band of hunters on horseback. Around the room, plush carpets of Nevarran make and silk pillows and feather-stuffed blankets evoked a sense of sleep.

In the center was a cushioned table. Hadiza lay upon it and sighed. It must have been goose down for it to be so soft, but it was also warm, the sheets like silk upon her bare skin. Somewhere, behind a silk screen, a flautist began to play a drowsing tune, fluttering over notes like a dragonfly darting along a pond’s placid surface. Hadiza pillowed her face on her arms and shut her eyes. She barely heard the attendant enter, drowsed with the scent of incense and warmed oil. Droplets of almond oil were dappled on her skin, and then a strong, firm pair of hands began their quest to seek out every ache, every torment, and every pain from her muscles they could find.

She groaned despite herself, as those strong hands smoothed away the roughness of her life. She felt a rush of ecstasy to her head, and went boneless and limp upon the table as the attendant continued.

The flautist played with a virtuoso’s skill, not too loud, nor too soft. The music rode the atmosphere, tying it all together without overpowering it. Hadiza sighed, biting her lip when the attendant began to knead the curves of her rear with sure hands.

“It is customary, Your Worship, that we reach every part of the body,” the attendant murmured, and even her voice was redolent with the languor of the place, “but if there are…parts of you you’d rather not have us touch, please do not hesitate to say so.”

Hadiza opened her eyes.

“Wait, when you say every part…do you mean… _every_ part?” She asked, incredulous.

The attendant did not laugh. “Yes, Inquisitor. Every part of the body is vital to some other part. Although if you would rather not…”

Hadiza hesitated. “I…no…it’s just that…no one’s ever offered that kind of…alright…I suppose there’s no harm in it, is there? Very well, then...continue”

The attendant did laugh, then, and continued her work.

Hadiza almost regretted it, until she felt exactly what the attendant spoke of.

When she finished the backside, she gently turned Hadiza over, and Hadiza gasped when she felt hands at her throat. It was hard, so very hard, to suppress the wave of pleasure it brought her, and she breathed deep to distract herself. The attendant moved lower, along her collarbone and shoulders, working each arm to the fingertips, until both were limp and useless. Hadiza did not even notice the lingering on her marked hand, which was oddly dormant by virtue of the heavy piece of the Seer’s Star at her throat.

When the attendant’s hands began to knead her breasts, Hadiza clamped her mouth around a small sound, squeezing her legs together on instinct. The only times her breasts were touched so was when she and Samson made love. It was…odd to have someone touch and massage them for the sake of anatomy and naught else.

Still, her body was her body, and she suppressed the moan in her throat just barely when the attendant worked out aches in her chest she did not know she had, working each breast thoroughly, until her nipples were erect and Hadiza’s body was aflame with the inferno of desire; a desire with no outlet nor direction of target.

Just as soon, the attendant moved lower, working her taut waist until Hadiza felt as if she were releasing extra weight. She felt her stomach go down, the bloating of forced inactivity summarily released. And then her hips, and then her—

“Oh!” Hadiza could not stop it in time as the attendant’s fingers worked her sex, kneading the outer lips until she was as swollen and slick as a ripened summer peach. Her legs parted automatically, hips writhing before she realized what was happening.

She stopped, as did the attendant, whose masked face stared at her.

“My apologies, Your Worship, do you want me to stop? We can if you like.”

Hadiza opened her eyes, staring at the masked face. Did Orlesians pay for this pleasure? Was there no guilt? No shame? Most importantly: did _Vivienne_ know?

“I…” She breathed, caught in the rising tide of desire and the encroaching darkness of guilt. “I don’t think that’s necessary…”

The attendant nodded, and Hadiza cursed herself for the twinge of longing as she removed her hands and worked her thighs and knees instead.

She lay there, willing her heart to stop racing and burying the wish for release under the clarity of her mission’s parameters. The attendant took extra time on her feet, rotating them, massaging the tender and sore arches, and stretching muscle, tendon, and ligament to ensure full range of motion.

Hadiza sighed, forgetting the ache between her legs, an emptiness longing to be filled.

After the massage, Hadiza was permitted to sleep and rest, woken only to be served a light supper of delicately fried shrimp, served with roasted scallions and asparagus, which she thoroughly enjoyed accompanied by a slightly sweet white wine. Afterward, she napped again, until an attendant gently roused her to take her to a mud bath. There, she found Vivienne, already relaxed, like a sleek wet dream, fresh cucumber over her eyes and a mud mask on her face.

“Welcome, darling,” she said absently, her voice slurred with languor, “I would greet you but the mud must work its magic you see.”

Hadiza smiled, leaning back as an attendant placed cucumber on her own eyes.

“You should have warned me,” she said when she felt they were alone, “I was completely caught unawares.”

Vivienne smiled. “Of the thoroughness of the massage? Ah, I’m sorry, darling. That was an egregious oversight on my part. I had only assumed you would enjoy it, though I forget you are giving your loyalty over to another, now.” Her smile was smug.

Hadiza thought of Samson, and sighed.

“Yes, but that wasn’t why I declined. I…she was a stranger is all. Didn’t even know her name for her to be…so intimate with me.”

Vivienne’s smile faded. “I truly am sorry, my dear. It was so careless and thoughtless of me not to consider how you might react to such an encounter. I’ll make it up to you.”

“There’s no need, Vivienne.” Hadiza said, meaning it. “It was only a surprise, and I know you only wanted to help. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t regret turning down her offer.”

A memory of a stranger’s hands working her until she was wet and swollen and—oh _Maker_ —so ready, invaded her thoughts and she wished badly she had not turned down the offer, or at least worked on herself in her bath. Hadiza vowed to lock herself away with Samson for at least three days uninterrupted when she returned. She hoped he suffered such longing as she did in that moment.

As the fountain bubbled on in the stretch of silence and tranquility both women cultivated and enjoyed, somehow Hadiza felt an uncertainty she had not felt in some time. She stood on the precipice of discovering the conspiracy that would like as not claim her life, and yet she could not see the forest for the damned trees—trees that kept cropping up, likely to detract from the one detail she missed and needed.

Hadiza peeled the cucumbers from her eyes. The mud bath was lovely, but she had work to do. Vivienne did not move. Hadiza rose with painstaking difficulty, making her way to the bathing pool to rinse the mud from her face and skin, finding it supple and soft, save for the few raised scars, silvered with age and still tender deep down for the more recent additions.

Wrapping herself in a robe, she crept away.

There was still one tree she had not given the full of her attention.

* * *

As much as Samson was loyal to the bloodthirsty maze that was Kirkwall, one thing that city of chains and Val Royeaux had in common was their first impression. Where Kirkwall’s foundations were laid with the intention of instilling fear and awe, Val Royeaux was made to overwhelm.

And Samson was far from overwhelmed. He was downright disgusted, in fact. He had no room in his heart for the frivolity and over-the-top presentation Orlais had made its bones on. Not only that, but his focus had become singular and determined since Odette set the course.

She had also had Priam keel-hauled for his treachery, Samson had not expected that. He had, in fact, expected her to feed Priam to her sisters, but with the spell of blood magic broken, they had vanished from the Dragon’s Teeth and swam for warmer waters in their native Rivain.

But when Priam was forced over the side, bound by strong rope, expertly knotted by Tiberius—who had been elevated to boatswain in his stead—Samson’s brows rose in surprise. And by the time Priam’s shredded body was hauled back up—soaked through, drained of blood save for the bruising where it collected beneath his skin, and ragged to the point of being unrecognizable from the abuse of the sea with a ship going full-sail—Samson knew that perhaps keel-hauling was a better fate than being fed to the sirens.

With justice served and loyalty assured, Odette wasted no time in fulfilling her end of the bargain, and Tiberius attended as boatswain with a loyalty Samson knew was virtually beyond reproach. Then again, he’d thought the same of Priam.

They spoke of it, the night Val Royeaux was sighted.

“Odette is heartless,” Tiberius said as Samson finished his duties in the kitchen, taking over until another cook could be recruited, “but she is a woman of her word. She rewards loyalty and punishes treachery. Priam had been nursing his resentment from the moment Odette drove Balor from the ship.”

Samson snorted. “Figured as much. How’d she keep him in check all this time without her magic?”

Tiberius frowned. “You misunderstand, templar, if you think Odette commands loyalty by using her magic. She is a skilled orator, of a surety, and perhaps they may have convinced some of the men to stay aboard and crew for her, but she liberated many of these men from slavery and death sentences. She gave these men a new purpose and something to strive for.”

“But they’re bloody pirates.” Samson countered. “Where’s the honor in that?”

“The same place the honor in poisoning the world with red lyrium, sacking and enslaving entire villages and towns, and trying to kill the Inquisitor are, I’d imagine.” Tiberius replied.

Samson’s face went red and he looked away.

“Alright I deserved that.” He said. “Still, why are you so loyal to her? What she free you from?”

Tiberius looked down at his hands. Samson followed his gaze and for the first time he noted the knotted and warped scar tissue on the qunari’s wrists.

“Tevinter is an old, old country, and old empire. What the south might mistake for barbarism could be custom in Tevinter. Slavery is woven into the very fabric of its economy as you well know.”

Samson shuddered. He wished he did not have a keen memory of his years in Kirkwall. Too many had wound up bound for Tevinter as chattel in those chaotic days.

“I was taken as young adolescent. I was born Vashoth, so I had nothing of the Qun to mold me. That made me ripe for Tevinter’s slavers. They lured me with the promise of glory, and I found myself branded and being used as a magister’s personal bodyguard and attack dog. Occasionally, his wife would…” Tiberius shook his head. “It does not matter. I found myself running an errand at the docks. My hands were always chained to remind not only others of my station, but me. Odette saw this and asked if this was the life I wanted. She told me she would be leaving with the evening tide, and that I could either be on that ship and have my bonds broken, or return to a life of humiliating servitude and abuse. I killed the guards on my way out and embarked on _The Deliverance_ just before she went underway. I never looked back.”

Samson nodded solemnly. “And the magister never came after you?” He asked.

Tiberius smiled. “Odette wore his finger bones as a belt once.” He said.

Samson laughed. As morbid as it was he felt it was fitting. The bastard Vint deserved it. Still, he knew not all Tevene people were inherently evil, but he’d dealt with too many of them that were dubious at best, and downright barbaric at worst. The Champions tangle with Tevinter slavers and magisters had not served to instill any confidence. But Dorian…ah well, there was an exception to every rule, he supposed.

“Odette is no more human than I am,” Tiberius said, as if sensing his thoughts, “but her time amongst you all has served to lend her a perspective that her more feral kin lack.”

Samson chuckled. “Aye, it wasn’t any judgement on her, more like—“

The crow’s nest cried out above that Val Royeaux had been spotted. Almost immediately, Samson cast aside his judgment of Odette—which in truth was more a reflection than anything—and sped above decks to see.

In the night, Val Royeaux sparkled like a jewel in Orlais’ breast, the docks lit with prettied lanterns. Odette had ordered the colors shifted, and Samson saw not the black flag of a raider, but one of a respectable merchant. Right. He was Jean Luc, now. And somewhere in that city was a woman to which he’d fixed his heart, against all of his good sense, it seemed.

Odette summoned him to her quarters for one last meeting before he had to become his role as the Orlesian merchant.

“You know,” Odette said, and he had to shudder from the sensation her voice inspired, “there will be a scandal to end all scandals if your face is seen amongst my crew.”

Samson nodded. “It’s why I have a mask, Captain.” He said with a lopsided smirk.

“A damned fine one, by human standards.” Odette agreed. “But if you are to play the role of a merchant who has seen more of the world than the insulated members of the Orlesian Court, you must aspire to rise above…the standard.”

Samson chuckled. “You going to attire me like a prince? Get me all gussied up like some carnival goose so I can pass as one of them?”

Odette licked her lips and Samson wished he’d not mentioned the goose bit. Still, it was apt all things considered.

She gestured with her hand gripping the whiskey glass, for him to have a look inside the chest at the foot of her bed.

“Human clothing is by far one of the most interesting things I’ve had the pleasure of pilfering, truly,” Odette mused as Samson lifted the chest’s heavy life. It squeaked on its hinges, but within was a king’s ransom of spoils.

“But…” He murmured. Maker, with this alone he could start a new life and not need to work for months at least! There had to be at least a few sovereigns that the stuff was worth.

Odette sipped her whiskey and smirked.

Samson withdrew a mask, and he knew, in the moment that he held it, that it was perfect for his ruse.

It was red in color, likely infused with some strange stone—dawn stone or summer stone mayhap, he could not be sure—and inlaid with obsidian. Horns rose for the forehead, and the brow had been sculpted into a heavy and menacing snarl. The mouth was open, and the fangs of the mask served to complete it.

“This couldn’t have been a recent score,” Samson said, turning the mask over in his hands and then moving to withdraw a brocade coat of deep crimson velvet—so deep it was almost black. “Stuff’s all outdated. Those fucks will laugh me out of the room for wearing this ancient stuff.”

“I scoured this from the bottom of the sea,” Odette admitted, “none of the men are truly comfortable diving to the depths, but the sea and I have an understanding. Still, you are right: these fashions _are_ outdated, but no less lavish. Would it not turn more heads to look as a lordling stepping from the annals of hallowed antiquity rather than trying to blend in?”

Samson frowned. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t want anymore attention from the world. But…how am I supposed to pull this off?”

“With confidence, Samson.” Odette chided. “Goddess below, have you no courage left in you? Or did the Inquisitor suck that from you and leave none for you to cling to?”

Samson moved quickly, abandoning the ancient spoils to shove Odette against her desk, his dagger drawn and at her throat.

“You’ll not speak ill if her.” He warned. “She was a worthy adversary, better than I deserved, and there’s no one more fit for me to serve than her while I make my penance.”

Odette did not flinch, even at the honed blade pressed into her scaled throat.

Her smile widened, revealing those serrated fangs.

“There he is.” She said, and Samson swallowed hard in fighting the sensation of her voice on his senses. “That is the man who would have killed the Inquisitor and thought little of it. That is the man that needs to grace the fête tomorrow night.”

Samson inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. He withdrew, sheathing his dagger as smoothly and quickly as he’d drawn it. Odette finished off the rest of her whiskey and set the glass down, smacking her lips.

“Now, let me impart a warning of my own.” She said. Samson glowered.

“If,” as she spoke the word, Samson clenched his teeth against the pain that was at once familiar and foreign.

“If you ever deign to attack me like that again,” she was speaking calmly and yet the unfurling tail of fire in his gut drove him to his knees, until he fell on his side, curled in on himself. He was that guttersnipe again, laying in the damned corner amidst some dirty hay as a makeshift bed, powerless against the tide of blood Kirkwall nearly drowned in.

“I will shatter your bones and leave you at your lady’s feet.”

Samson felt his will dissolve beneath her voice, his mind scattered, heart racing, his bile rising. Odette walked toward him and he saw only the heeled boots she wore, polished to a shine. Hooking her toe beneath her shoulder, she rolled him onto his back and placed her boot on his chest. It may as well been a mountain on his chest for all her strength.

“Do we have an understanding, Ser Samson?” She asked, and the tone of her voice reached into his chest, pressing claws into his heart, making his eyes roll around wildly, sweat on his brow.

“I will not ask a second time.” She said.

“Yes.” He replied, his own voice rough with pain. Odette tilted her head, the yellow of her good eye flaring once before she withdrew. Samson waited until the sickness and discomfort passed before he climbed, trembling, to his feet, rubbing his chest.

“Now,” Odette said cheerily, her voice void of her gift, “let us teach you to dance. If I’m going to help you, I don’t want an embarrassing display of lack of proper decorum and how to rub elbows with the wealthy and privileged. I rob these people for a living, so I have some respect for their business.”

Despite the violence of their previous exchange, Samson laughed, shaking off the last of the pain and tremors.

He retrieved the mask and went to the small, polished pane of a mirror hanging over Odette’s bedside table. When he placed the mask on his face, he smiled.

* * *

Hadiza did not need to be told where to find Duke de Bettencourt. The man was as decadent as the rumors said. When she found his chambers, she stopped short. The place was steamy, and he lay back amidst the steam, his face unmasked. Between his knees was an attendant with red hair, their head bobbing up and down above his lap. He spotted Hadiza and smirked, reaching down to pet the attendant’s head almost affectionately.

“Inquisitor,” he drawled, “come to join me? To what do I owe the honor?”

The attendant never stopped, and Hadiza hesitated, but then steeled her will and resolve and strode in the room.

“I’d like a work in private, if you don’t mind.” She said cooly, hiding behind the strength of her title.

Ghislain chuckled, then gently tugged the attendant’s hair.

“Thank you, Ysandre,” he said, “we shall continue later, of course.”

The attendant wiped her mouth, swollen and pink, and replaced her mask before Hadiza could commit her face to memory. She retrieved her clothes and left the room, leaving Hadiza and the Duke alone.

Ghislain replaced his towel over his lap.

“Now,” he said, gesturing to the wooden benches along the walls, “shall we talk?”

Hadiza remained standing.

“What do you know of Comte de Piedmont?” She asked without preamble. “He seems rather ill-inclined to speak of you.”

“As well he should be,” Ghislain laughed, “we were on opposite sides of the conflict of the throne, after all. But have you come asking me as a curious lover or…somewhat else?”

Hadiza tilted her head, smiling through the steam.

“Would it change your answer either way?” She asked coyly and the Duke laughed.

“A fair point, my lady. Mm, how is it you do not grace the Court more frequently? You are a vision, or mayhap it is the steam.”

Hadiza approached him, slow and languid, imagining herself the predator Ariadne truly was.

“Oh, I _am_ a vision, Your Grace, make no mistake about that. But you have failed to answer my question.”

Duke de Bettencourt was a hedonist according to the rumors, and given his confidence in his state of undress when Hadiza found him, she believed it. Hadiza looked down at him, her expression coy, but there was something in her eyes that lurked, hungry and insistent. She hoped he saw it, hoped he thought that hunger was for him.

“Am I to believe the little Comte has displeased you, my lady?” He asked softly, reaching to stroke her hip. Hadiza felt her skin crawl in revulsion.

“Am I to believe you are insinuating that you could do better, my lord?” She asked him, and the Duke smiled. Hadiza took a deep breath as his hand moved higher, cupping one of her breasts through the robe, thumb stroking across her nipple.

She caught his wrist with lightning precision, unable to bear it any longer for the sake of an answer. With her magic, she had the strength of a qunari, able to crumble stone and shatter tree trunks with a single blow. Without her magic, she had only the strength of her training to go by. She found the tender and vulnerable point in his wrist and squeezed, watching his hand go limp and his expression ricochet between anger, surprise, and _pain_.

“This body is by invitation only, my lord,” Hadiza said calmly, “and I will not give you warning again: if you ever deign to lay a hand upon me in such a way I will have you drawn and quartered and serve your head on a platter at my next fête.”

The Duke struggled, his focus tethered to the live wire of pain she inspired. With her grip fixed, he could not summon the energy to free himself.

“I could have the Inquisition disbanded for this!” He hissed.

Hadiza smiled. “Could you, now? You who were amongst the loudest to clamor for Celene’s death? You who were amongst the loudest to support the usurper Gaspard de Chalons? You who escaped justice by turning against your own at the eleventh hour? Disband _me_? I think not, Your Grace. Your word, in this moment, is about as good as your cock is to me: useless, empty, and void of any corroboration to prove its mettle.”

Hadiza released his wrist and he cradled it to his chest.

“The Comte de Piedmont would only marry you for the wealth you would bring his penniless house, Inquisitor!” Ghislain spat. “He’d not take a Rivaini sorceress to wife otherwise.”

Hadiza ignored the sting of his words, having heard the Comte utter similar epithets in their many exchanges.

“If he is so penniless, then how is he able to afford this grand gesture of Visage du Soleil? Memory serve, they trade only on coin, not favors.”

“You understand precious little of what a name means in Orlais, Inquisitor.” Ghislain sneered. “The Piedmonts have been borderline bankrupt for years. They trade on the favor of their good name only, and it is that same favor that attracts wealthy patronage, though not without its own price. He must repay those debts eventually.”

Hadiza’s brows went up. “And who is Comte de Piedmont’s patron, my lord? You?”

“Don’t be foolish, girl.” The Duke laughed nastily. “I would not give a single copper to that fool, who stood against the chevaliers in the civil war. It is that loyalty that allows him to trade on the favors of his name even now, with Celene babying him in Court.”

He spat, for good measure.

“Still, if I were you, I would look to any of the duchies in Orlais the Inquisition has had its hand in…correcting, if I were you.” He smiled, licking his lips in a way that made her skin crawl again. “Though given the Inquisition’s proclivity for interference, that might take some time.”

Hadiza frowned. “Could you not just tell me?”

Ghislain sat up straight, still rubbing his wrist. Hadiza could already see the imprints of her fingers around it. It would bruise, but only slightly.

“I would if I knew, Inquisitor. You have many friends, and enemies too. And if you must know, I count myself amongst neither.”

Hadiza snorted. “And yet you would have tried to fuck me anyway.” She turned to leave.

“Inquisitor!” Ghislain called. She stopped short, glancing over her shoulder.

“How does the Red General’s cock compare to the Comte de Piedmont’s?”

Hadiza walked away, ignoring the bubbling magma of anger in her chest, the bile burning at the base of her throat. She did not let him see how much his words had wounded her, or how his touch had repulsed her, nor how his echoing laughter salted the wound his words made. The rumors were only that, for now. There was no proof of her affair with Samson.

Not until both of them were ready.

And if the Duke believed she and Etienne an item, then the Duke himself was not the hand behind the conspiracy.

Hadiza sighed. She needed to speak to her advisors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We gettin' there, ain't we? Leave one if you with me. ✌


	18. Chapter 18

“She wants us to  _ what _ ?” Cullen’s voice rose louder than he intended, but he quieted when Vivienne frowned at him. Tugging at his collar, he sighed, leaning over the table to eye the map of Val Royeaux that Divine Victoria had “not” supplied them with by having her attendants leave it conveniently rolled up with the Inquisition’s official courier.

“We’re to take the Seer’s Star out of play before the premier.” Thom said. At Dorian’s raised brow he chuckled. “I know. According to her, the damned thing is locked in the director’s office, and he’s never seen without it when he’s about.”

“Maker…” Cullen breathed. “What of the remaining templars? Can we not simply send them in to neutralize the magic the night of the premier?”

“We have no way of knowing if they can even suppress it,” Vivienne said, “given that a mere piece of it has managed to keep Hadiza’s magic suppressed all this time.”

Dorian frowned. “What? That shouldn’t be possible. The Seer’s Star is said to compel others to do the will and bidding of the wielder, it said nothing of suppressing mana.”

Cullen frowned, his nose wrinkling. “Perhaps because it is forbidden, heathen magic. Not much is known about that.”

Dorian gave Cullen a sharp glare. “Yes, and not every magic is weak to templar influence, especially with the templars essentially disbanded. There’s no telling if any are even strong enough to attempt it.”

Cullen was sullenly silent. The entire group was, frowning at the map. Visage du Soleil was marked with a crow piece, indicating the Inquisitor’s decision to use subterfuge and stealth. Cullen wished she would see reason and send her forces in and have done with it. He did not understand this Game, and had no desire to. The fact that Hadiza had taken to it almost as soon as they crossed into the city baffled him.

“What of the Comte’s chateau?” Vivienne mused aloud. “The templars could neutralize anything there could they not? Without alerting the Comte and his household of course.”

Dorian snapped his fingers, his face brightening.

“Brilliant. But how do we get the templars there? And even so, can they neutralize the collar on Hadiza?” He began to pace, a habit when he was thinking, musing to himself.

“I’ll go.” They looked up to see Aja standing in the doorway. Vivienne momentarily wondered where the warrior had been all morning, but decided she did not wish to know. Aja looked every bit the foreign noble, clad in the silk and velvet men’s garb commonly attributed to House Trevelyan, the rearing Friesians embroidered on her double-breasted coat.

“I can talk to Ser Barris,” she said, “make up a reason to be there.”

“And you think Etienne de Piedmont will just let you into his home armed and backed by half a dozen templars?” Vivienne laughed. “Don’t be daft, darling.”

Aja snorted. “He’ll let us in if we’ve got the Divine’s Seal.”

Vivienne’s gaze grew sharp. “You know Most Holy cannot seem involved in this.”

Aja laughed. “With templars, there’s no way to deny she’s involved already. I will go, have them sweep the entire chateau and neutralize any and all magic within it. This should free Hadiza and allow her to recover. She has to be exhausted by now.”

Dorian and Vivienne were quiet. Neither had ever been deprived of access to their magic before, and neither could imagine what it was like to not have it within easy reach. Even Vivienne looked uncomfortable. Cullen swallowed hard.

“But this doesn’t negate the fact that we have to take the Seer’s Star out of play.” Blackwall said.

Aja shrugged. “Varric could do it.” She said. “He’s stolen worse from worse, right?”

Varric stepped from behind her. “I can’t confirm or deny that she’s right but she might be right. Listen, I’ve got half a dozen shiny emeralds lying around somewhere. We go in, we swap out the real with the—er—fake, in this case. It’s an in and out job.”

“Except the place is by invitation only.” Vivienne reminded him. Varric smirked.

“I’m one of the most successful authors in Thedas, Iron Lady. They’ll want to see me.”

The group was silent for a moment, mulling over the possibility—the absolute absurdity—of the plan. For a moment, Cullen considered the repercussions. They had to free Hadiza first—he cared precious little if remaining in the chateau was her choice, he knew being without her magic would eventually drive her mad. He also thought of what it would mean to send templars into the chateau. The Divine had kept the remaining templars as an honor guard, and he wished she hadn’t. Still, it gave those who wished to serve renewed purpose.

Cullen stared at the map.

“Alright.” He breathed. “Varric, if you can get into the theatre and swap out the…the gem, I would strongly advise you take Dorian with you. He knows what to look for.” He met the dwarf’s gaze and he nodded, smug, but with thankfully no quip on his tongue. Dorian crossed his arms. The prospect of laying eyes on an artifact that should not have existed excited him.

“Madame Vivienne, you will be in charge of taking the templars into the chateau to disarm the spells within, I trust you know what to look for. See if you can talk some sense into Hadiza as well.”

“I’m heading there to help her get into her dress for the fête in any case,” Vivienne responded, “I will see it done.”

Cullen nodded, satisfied that at least the First Enchanter was competent enough to not cause unmerited trouble.

“The rest of us…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, “…will get ready for this fête, I suppose. Maker’s breath…”

He glanced around the room. “We all know our roles. To work, then.”

The Inquisition dismissed its meeting, but Aja lingered.

“You should get ready Aja.” Cullen said. Aja smiled, all teeth.

“I am. You sent Vivienne in my stead. Why?”

Cullen paused as he was rolling up the map of the city. He hesitated, trying to think clearly. Lack of lyrium meant frequent headaches and cramping. The headaches had lessened to dull aches, but it made thinking a hard process.

“Aja, this is a delicate situation, one that requires a finesse you..erm…lack.”

Aja’s eyes flashed. “You forget who I am if you think I am incapable of finesse, Commander.” She warned.

Cullen remained steadfast, meeting her gaze with his own. He had faced down far more terrifying foes than Lord Aja Trevelyan.

“Yes, but Madame Vivienne has the unique connections and experience with the Orlesian peerage that we need. Believe you me, I am of a mind to storm the chateau and take the Comte into custody and interrogate him to ferret out who holds his leash, but that would do the Inquisition no good.”

Cullen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose again. Aja’s expression softened, but only slightly.

“Do they not provide you with something for the symptoms?” She asked bluntly. “What of that tea Hadiza makes? She gives Samson the same and he looks a lot less like a dead rat than he did when we first got him.”

Cullen laughed despite himself, and it didn’t help the pulsing radiating from his temples. He waved his hand.

“She has not been here to make any for me for some time, Trevelyan. Her attentions have been…occupied.”

Aja raised a brow. “That’s no reason to abandon a former patient. Did she write the recipe down? I can have one of the mages make it.”

Cullen shook his head. “No need. It will pass in time, it always does. Go with Rainier and Pavus to Visage du Soleil. You spent some years as a pirate, it may be your skills will be more suitable.”

Aja snorted again. “Don’t try to soothe my wounded pride by shunting me off to a side mission, Commander. I will go with them regardless.”

Cullen smiled and Aja smiled back. For the first time, it did not freeze his blood.

* * *

When  _ The Deliverance  _ was moored and cargo unloaded, Samson put on his original Orlesian mask, intending to switch to the grotesque gift Odette had given him during the fête. When they disembarked, Samson was surprised to find an entourage waiting for him.

“Messire Jean Luc,” one of the masked merchants said, “you have arrived just in time.”

Odette—mercifully—said nothing. Samson realized, in that moment, that he was the leader, and from thence would be leading the mission.

And he had no idea what the fuck to do.

Blessedly, a carriage was brought for him, bearing his false insignia, and once inside, he heaved a sigh. From the sea straight into the fires of an Orlesian fete, truly his reckless days were nowhere near behind him.

“We’ve prepared the way for you.” One of the masked agents said and Samson swallowed.

“I’m not exactly sure what the hell I’m supposed to be doing at this point. You gonna give me a lay of the land, perhaps? And where is Had—the Inquisitor?” He caught himself. It was not that no one in Skyhold knew what he was to her—what she meant to him—but he guarded his heart jealously, and hers too. He’d not let them hear what saying her name made of him. He swallowed hard.

“As far as we know, things are continuing apace.” The agent explained. “The Inquisitor sent a team to Visage du Soleil to acquire an artifact she believes is going to be used to seize power from the Inquisition itself. According to the Ghost, your job is to remove the…device from her neck while the other templars neutralize the chateau.”

Samson frowned. Odette did too.

“Why can’t one of them do it?” He asked. The agent hesitated, and Samson had a sneaking suspicion they were turning red beneath that expressionless mask. The agent cleared his throat.

“Her Worship has expressed a lack of trust in the templars to the Ghost, which is why she is sending you. Her Worship does not know you are coming.”

Odette made a sound and Samson saw the agent shift uncomfortably in his seat. She turned to him, radiant and hidden behind her witch’s mask. For a moment, she tilted her head, and then nodded.

“So since she doesn’t know, neither does the Comte.” Samson said at last. The agent gave a curt nod, shooting furtive glances at Odette. The siren was quiet, but her stillness was as living statuary, and Samson had no doubt that her one good eye was on the agent, humming a warning in his bones.

“She’s going to kill me.” Samson muttered under his breath.

Odette laughed and the agent flinched. Samson shot her a dark look from behind his own mask.

“Cut the shit, Odette. He’s just a lad. No threat to either of us.” He said crossly. Odette’s face was obscured but he knew she was smirking.

“Your gifts have already been delivered to the party, Messire Luc,” the agent continued, “and once there you will have agents to keep information flowing. Your job is to free the Inquisitor undetected.”

Samson laughed. Of all the feats he was capable of, stealth did not number among them. And he did not know if he had the strength to quell unknown magic. Still, Hadiza was counting on him even if she did not realize it, and so he would try. He did not suffer a meandering sea voyage, a battle with sirens and a blood-mad mage only to turn tail and run from his purpose.

There was also his promise to consider.

“Who’s your friend?” The agent asked, suspicious.

“Another contact of the Ghost.” Samson said and the agent wisely probed no further.

The carriage ride through the city was somewhat relaxing, but Samson cared precious little for the trappings of Orlesian architecture and opulence. Once, when he had been given the power and status, he might have entertained the idea of setting up his own fiefdom in this city, bestowing himself like a demigod or a king, ruling with an iron fist, with the fear of the Elder One keeping his subjects in check. It seemed a kind of madness, now, to think he had entertained such violent and lofty fantasies.

_ You were never meant to be that anyway.  _ He told himself. Nobility simply did not suit him, no matter how the Chantry had turned him from an unwanted ward into a trained knight. There was no amount of time or education that could temper and smooth his rough edges. Beneath the armor, he would always be who he was.

Tiberius’ question chased his wandering thoughts:  _ what are you, now? _

He still had no answer to give. He was no knight, of a certainty; that ship had long since pulled from harbor never to be seen again, but nor was he a ragged guttersnipe selling what skills the Chantry saw fit to give him either. He was no longer the Red General, sowing the seeds of death in the fertile heartlands of Thedas, corrupting the bones of the world with red, crystalline poison, until its discordant and brackish melody was all that sang to him for miles around. Hadiza had met him in battle, fearless and confident, and torn him apart, exposed him as the ordinary mortal man he was.

No armor, no title, no status, and no future if Hadiza met her end at the hands of the Comte and his conspirators. He wanted so badly for someone to simply tell him what he was. It would have been easier to mold himself to be whatever was needed or wanted. But Hadiza had only given him a new trajectory...it would always be on him how he followed it, and to what end it would eventually lead him.

Never had the chains of love been so readily welcome. In that, at least, he knew himself.

“Any deeper into your thoughts, Samson, and you will forget yourself.” Odette’s voice was pitched low beneath the creaking of the trundling carriage, yet he heard it clearly despite her sitting on the other side of the bench. The agent did not stir to indicate they’d heard her either. Samson marveled at such a simple manipulation of her gift.

“Just seeking answers to some important questions, is all.” Samson replied with a smile. “You need not trouble yourself.”

“Oh I am not, I assure you,” her voice was like silk on his skin and he shivered despite himself, “but you need to focus. I have spent time amongst enough Orlesians to know that it is shark-infested waters we enter tonight.”

Samson chuckled. “Indeed, so let’s all play our roles, shall we?”

Odette dipped her head in a duelist’s nod.

“The stage awaits, Messire Luc.” She said and Samson shuddered at the way she said his false name. He couldn’t wait for this mess to be over.

* * *

Hadiza stood in the lambent light of her chambers, clad in the costume Remy La Fienne and an army of seamstresses had crafted for her. When she saw it on the dressform, she had dismissed it as too demure, almost painfully so.

How wrong she had been to doubt Remy’s creative genius.

It was true that her days of baring skin, and the oiled swell of her breasts were behind her, but that did not stop Remy from playing to Hadiza’s favored strengths. She had put the dress on first, before the sheer layer, and seeing herself in the mirror for the first time, gasped.

The dress was simple silk, clinging loosely to the curves of her body, the waist artfully cinched with a sash at the back that trailed like a comet’s tail behind her. The collar was high, trimmed with golden embroidery at its edge. Hadiza was disappointed when she thought she would be forced to don a simple white gown. Then, she put on the sheer ‘overcoat’.

Remy was brilliant, simply brilliant.

The gown itself was meant to highlight her silhouette, an echo of the Divine’s robes, only Remy had opted to dye the embellishments midnight blue. The overcoat was a sheer mesh of white, threaded with gold thread. Upon closer inspection Hadiza cried out to see that the gold thread was shaped like Chantry’s sun insignia. In the light, Hadiza blazed like a beacon.

“Oh!” Vivienne pressed a delicate hand to her chest. “You are a vision my dear.” She swept toward Hadiza, clad all in the deepest aubergine, the bodice embroidered with gold. Her henin had been stylized to be far more dramatic, echoic the Fereldan Frostback dragon they’d battled so long ago, it seemed.

Hadiza reached for her mask, which was merely half of the Chantry’s sun. Vivienne helped her secured it to her head and hair, which—according to Remy’s instructions—was to be combed and oiled to shine and left to fall loose down her back, gathered elegantly at the nape of her neck. Hadiza stared at herself in the mirror and saw night and day reflected back.

But that was not all, was it?

“He really…” She breathed and Vivienne placed a finger to Hadiza’s lips with a smile.

“Never give voice to it, darling. It spoils the mystery. Aside, I am sure when you make your entrance the message will be quite clear.”

Hadiza nodded, resisting the fire that bloomed in her cheeks from Vivienne’s gentle touch. Her hands smelled of that unique fragrance—something Bastien had made for her when he was alive. There was no other scent like it and Hadiza found it all too easy to smile like a drunken girl with her first crush when she caught wind of it.

Vivienne swept away when there was a discreet knock at the door. With a curt order, an elven servant, clad in Piedmont livery, came to inform them that the Comte was awaiting them both.

“Tell him he can wait a while longer,” Hadiza said venomously, “I’ll not rush my entrance on his account.”

She did not miss Vivienne’s raised chin of approval. Hadiza shared a smile with her reflection in her vanity, rummaging through her cosmetics to put the last finishing touches on her face. She rouged her lips carefully, then dusted the silver powder around her cheeks and eyes. She lined her eyes in kohl, smudging it to make the brightness of them all the brighter, and pressed the crushed golden dust onto her lids gently, creating the look of her as not only the night sky, but the sun, moon, and stars as well.

The servant balled his hand into a fist, but said nothing. Hadiza glanced over her shoulder.

“What are you still doing here? Go and tell your master if he wishes this to be a successful fête, then he must play the Game in full, and not just when it suits him and his inexplicable desire to order me about like one of  _ you _ .”

The effort of speaking fatigued her, she realized. She touched the emerald at her throat. She had to be free of it, and soon, this deprivation of her magic was beginning to wear on her heavily, as Etienne no doubt intended. Without her focus, Hadiza knew she would not be able to think as clearly and sharply as she should, especially when she needed to root out the traitor before the night was over.

It was Halamshiral all over again.

Somewhere, a bell chimed, and Hadiza sighed. Vivienne replaced her mask, a mirrored silver adorned with fine, faceted diamonds around the eyes, and the lower half of her face exposed. Hadiza followed her out, mindful of her dress’ train as she made her way to the stairs.

Etienne waited, clad in a fine black velvet doublet, embroidered with the insignia of House Piedmont on his breast. His trousers were soft lambskin, his boots high and polished to an almost reflective shine. When he turned, Hadiza saw he wore a simple mask, echoing that of a chevalier’s helm. Feathers plumed it, however, the soft yellow that was exclusive to their class.

He caught sight of her and Hadiza could not deny that his sharp intake of breath pleased her. Vivienne made her greetings, walking past him and gliding down the steps as if he were little more than the hired help. That pleased Hadiza as well.

Etienne offered his arm. “You are vision, Inquisitor.” He said, and Hadiza resisted the urge to curl her lip in a sneer.

“I know.” She said, linking her arm with his, trying not to recoil from the way his touch reviled her. She wanted to run screaming, but she had to finish this, and would that he had not chosen his side, because Hadiza was quite through extending her hand in diplomacy.

* * *

When Samson was announced as ‘Jean Luc’ at the Piedmont Chateau, he almost didn’t respond. The name was like an ill-fitting suit of armor, too tight in some areas, too loose in others, and most assuredly going to get him killed because of it. Odette was a vision of mystery on his arm, masked and clad in a fine and opulent gown ransacked from the spoils of her piracy. The Inquisition agent was his assistant, and Samson realized again he was the mission leader. He had one task, and he hoped he didn’t foul it up by opening his mouth too much, but these Orlesian parties required more talking than he was comfortable with.

Whispers tailing him like ghosts was something Samson was used to, but they were almost always abhorrent and insulting. This was entirely different.

Ariadne’s agents had done their work in sowing the seeds of his mystery amidst the peerage, and no doubt none thought to look into whether Jean Luc ever existed. Instead, they whispered with increasing interest, and Samson smirked beneath his demonic mask to hear none too few whispers of admiration for his backside. It was a wonderful change of pace—or might have been—had Odette not stolen the show without so much as a hum.

If she was right about anything, Samson admitted, it was that they did look like figures out of the annals of history stepping into the present-day to mingle for an evening. Samson stood straighter than he had in a long while, thinking to himself how wonderful it felt to be treated like a proper lordling…even though he knew he was never that.

But no Orlesian could claim to have escorted a creature spun from the thread of myth and legend, and it was that which made Samson smile, made him bold, made him speak as if he were one of them.

Odette’s melodious voice helped, of course.

Samson made his greetings, bowing when necessary, according a nod of respect when not, and always keeping a tight rein on his Marcher drawl.

“You and I could rule them,” Odette murmured to him as they waded through the sea of heavily powdered wigs, clouds of commingling perfumes and colognes, and swaying skirts of velvet and silk. “Is your lady worth all of this foolishness?”

Samson opened his mouth to reply when he bumped into a tall and slender man, wearing a strange mask. It reminded him of a fennec, only far more sinister, and there was somewhat else.

It was laced with lyrium.

Samson knew that song as surely as he knew the beat of his own heart, and his mouth went dry with the familiar thirst of it.

The fennec turned its head.

“I do not believe we have been properly acquainted.” It said, thought the tone implied they had no desire to remedy the situation. Odette smiled.

“Surely you know Messire Jean Luc? He has been abroad for some time and has now returned to Orlais.” Her voice was melodious and for a moment the fennec mask turned to look upon her.

“I am afraid I do not deal overly much with petty merchants,” the fennec said coldly, “my clientele tend to be plucked from less low-hanging fruit.”

Samson recovered. “Must not be sweet fruit to be wearing such rags as all that.” He laughed. “Trade with me, and I’ll garb you in Nevarran silk.”

The fennec looked somewhat rattled, and they stared at Samson hard.

“Nevarra does not deal in silk.”

Samson chuckled. “And again you show that your not-so-low hanging fruit may not be the most mature. Nevarra does in fact deal in silk, but they are selective about whom they trade with.”

“Indeed?” The fennec asked.

“Oh, it is so.” Odette said, and Samson felt the echo of her power in his blood. Again, the fennec’s head snapped toward her, lowering its head a fraction.

“Excuse me.” They said, and plunged into the crowd. Odette made a noise in her throat.

“What is it?” Samson asked. “Orlesians not to your liking anymore?”

Odette stared after where the fennec-masked figure had gone.

“He resisted my gift.” Odette said quietly, and there was uncertainty in her voice. “There exists very rare power in this world able to fully withstand a siren’s call.”

Samson frowned, following her gaze. The fennec seemed to be engaged in conversation with another reveler, nodding on occasion, shooting a furtive glance their way once. The other masked reveler laughed, all false of course, too much shaking of the shoulders, and there was a stilted quality to the way the head was thrown back, the laugh full-throated.

“We’ll keep an eye on that one. Seems a bit slippery to me.” Samson said. “Say, where are your—“

A collective gasp—a veritable ripple of delight—passed through the crowd as they turned en massed toward the wide staircase leading into the main hall. Samson and Odette followed the masked gazes to the top of the stairs where the Comte de Piedmont stood poised to make his entrance. Samson’s mouth went dry.

On the Comte’s arm was the sun made flesh.

Samson knew her, knew every part of her, and yet…how many weeks had it been since he’d last laid eyes on her? Maker, he had never seen her painted so vividly. Even during the Chantry services she demurred—a touch of oil to her lips, a bit of starlight oil on her skin, but always formal in her telltale coat and trousers.

He had never seen her in the fullness of her station, and he understood—as he was sure the entire assembly understood—the message her costume sent. It unnerved him, somewhat, but it thrilled him. The sheer audacity of it was enough to make him want her all the more. Trapped as she was at the Comte’s side, Samson knew she was anything but powerless.

Andraste tears, but he loved her. His heart was full, his breath short and slightly labored with the stunning realization.

Odette watched the Inquisitor a moment, and then Samson, narrowing her eye behind her mask.

“ _ Focus _ .” The word was like a pair of shears, cutting the thread that kept Samson transfixed on the object of his desire, his hatred, his fascination, and his  _ love _ . He turned his head, swallowing hard.

“I have to get to her.” He murmured. “Just need some moments to neutralize the thing on her neck.”

“She does not know you.” Odette said, the spell of her voice keeping Samson focused on her. “You may ask her to dance a  _ rigaudon  _ if you’re feeling confident. That should afford you time to talk.”

Samson stared at her evenly. He could feel her smugness from beneath her mask. Odette canted her head like a curious bird.

“Very funny.” He muttered. “If you’re done having  go at me, let’s get to work.”

Odette deftly snatched a glass of cordial from a passing servant bearing a tray, lifting her mask slightly to sip it. Not far within the crowd, a noble’s voice rose in righteous indignation at the foolishness of the servant who had apparently forgotten the drink he requested. Samson sighed, rolling his eyes.

Hadiza and Etienne descended the staircase, arm-in-arm, and the half of her face he could see, Samson was proud to see it schooled to an immeasurable calm. He knew the adoring smile on her face was empty, hollow, insubstantial. He knew it because when she smiled at him in the innumerable moments they spent together, her face was tender, her mouth soft, her eyes blurred with a dreamlike quality Samson could scarce describe. But he knew her, and knew her joy in the moment to be false.

“My lords and ladies,” Etienne announced, his voice carrying across the crowd as he stood upon the last few steps, Hadiza trapped at his side, “I bid you welcome this night, to the Visage du Soleil premiere fête! It is my hope that this production reminds the world that while Orlais may not rule from sea to sea as she was destined, that our stage—our art—our  _ culture _ —is the pinnacle of what all would aspire to be!”

Etienne turned to Hadiza, who in turn looked upon him, her gaze adoring. Samson could not tear his eyes from her. Maker how had he ever fallen so far not knowing such beauty walked the world?

“And we celebrate also, another monumental occasion.” Etienne said. He took Hadiza’s hands in his, intimate and familiar. Samson balled his hand into a fist, aching to defend her from this heartless lord.

“It is my wish, Your Worship, if you will have me, that I ask you to be my wife.”

Samson felt as if the world around him were made of glass and it had just been shattered. It fractured and crashed around his ears, leaving a perfect white emptiness. It had to be a lie—Hadiza would never…

She stared at Etienne as if he were the sun and she the earth longing to greet him. Her smile spread like blood on the cloth. Samson swallowed against an unexpected lump in his throat.

“My lord Comte,” she said, breathless—was it shock or joy? It did not matter. “You do me such an honor already, commissioning a mighty theatrical production to immortalize my name, and you have been naught but the most generous host since my arrival.”

Samson wanted to speak but he felt as voiceless as the siren from the fairytale in that moment.

Odette was squeezing his arm, nails digging into the soft velvet. There was a note, barely discernible, low in her throat, grounding him in a reality he wanted to flee and leave behind.

“Yes.” Hadiza said, and her smile was a knife in his gut, her adoration like smoke in his lungs.

Samson’s heart shattered to applause and cheers from the flower of Orlesian nobility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no bebeh what is you doin'? Leave one if you with me. ✌


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Um. Idk. Miscommunication between lovers. Hadiza gets the crew together to make a plan.

Hadiza thought she understood Etienne a little in the moment he turned to her, smiling at her like an ancient predator. She had sympathized with him, when she saw that he too had been under the influence of the Seer’s Star. But when he smiled at her, looking as pleased as could be as her ears burned with the sound of her own voice accepting his _marriage proposal_ , she knew only hatred; pure, unalloyed hatred. It poisoned her blood and hardened her heart. It made her want to scream and cry, to shout his lie to the entire assembly, and shove him down the stairs.

She smiled, compelled by the steady burn at her throat, a pulse of compulsory magic that made the emerald feel like a lodestone around her neck. She made of her gaze the pinnacle of lovestruck adoration, and when Etienne leaned in to press a seemingly innocuous kiss to her mouth, she bit his lip, making him grunt in pain.

They turned to face the cheering crowd, his hand at the small of her back, stroking in concentric circles. Hadiza felt her stomach churn. His touch was wrong, all of this was wrong, and he felt wrong, magical influence or no. There was no treacherous fruit to bear if the seed had not already been sown beforehand. Hadiza knew she had to accept that whatever reluctance Etienne initially had in this was long ended. She descended the stairs, feeling like a condemned woman doomed to burn at the stake.

She was numb and deaf to the congratulatory cheers, the excited chatter, the invitations from several women to join them in luncheon that they might extract the details of her supposed affair with the Comte. It should have been humorous--entertaining even--as was this not the very farce she and the Comte had planned from the beginning? Had she known it would lead to this, she would have rejected his invitation and taken the social blow, consequences be damned.

A woman, masked as a sea creature, stepped into their path.

“It would be amiss for me not to congratulate you on your pending nuptials, Inquisitor.” She said and Hadiza swore she felt velvet rub against her skin, a sensation that left her a bit bewildered.

“Thank you…” She heard herself say. Etienne turned his attentions to the sea creature.

“My lord Comte,” the sea creature murmured, and Hadiza was reminded of sunlight shifting and rolling on the sea floor, “on behalf of my employer, Messire Jean Luc, we would like to congratulate you both.”

Hadiza curtsied, only because Etienne bowed.

And then Jean Luc came, tall, medium build, behind the strangest and most delightfully grotesque masks Hadiza had ever seen. He bowed, and Hadiza swore she knew him.

“I thought,” he said, his voice rough, “I might claim a dance with the soon-to-be Comtesse de Piedmont before you spirited her off away from the world.”

Etienne canted his head, eyes glittering with cold suspicion.

“I do not believe we have formally met, Messire Luc.” He said, his tone indicative that he had no desire to remedy that detail. “You are a merchant, are you not?

“An obscenely wealthy one, my lord.” Jean Luc replied, and Hadiza could feel the grin in his voice. He sounded so familiar…

“Yes, well.” Etienne pulled Hadiza a little closer, and she worked not to stumble. “I would have a dance with my future wife. You may request a place on her card if it pleases you.”

Jean Luc and his companion bowed and curtsied respectively.

“I’ll look for you on the dance floor, Inquisitor.” Jean Luc said and Hadiza’s gaze followed him as he and his companion vanished into the crowd. Etienne drew her away.

“Come, Hadiza.” He said her name like he was biting forbidden fruit and Hadiza rankled, nostrils flaring in anger. He led her to the dance floor, holding her possessively...or like she was precious. What once confused her and aroused her in the beginning made her feel filthy, now. She had to stop him.

They danced a waltz. Hadiza saw only the blur of candlelight, heard only the dull murmur of the crowd, the whisper of a violin trilling a note.

Etienne was talking to her.

“If I did not think you would kill me in my sleep,” he said, “I’d have us married as soon as possible...and take the reins of the Inquisition from you with little protest.”

Hadiza frowned. Etienne smirked.

“But it is not to be so.” He said, pressing his thumb into her hip a little harder than she expected.

“Then we are to be wed after the premier.” Hadiza guessed dully. In the distance, she saw Ser Barris and Vivienne speaking. She also swore she saw Varric making his way to the stairs but he passed behind a few revelers and was gone.

“No.” Etienne said, sounding rather pleased, commanding her attention once more. “I am sure it will be the talk of Orlais, however. Don’t you agree, _ma chérie_?”

Hadiza bit her tongue, tasting the foul bitter poison of her own anger. Etienne’s hand squeezed hers as the waltz ended.

“Play nice, my dear,” he said, according her a courtly bow, “I will not have it said that _I_ failed to civilize the Rivaini savagery in your blood.”

Hadiza knew he would say something to her that was vile, but nothing ever prepared her for the shock of it. She stood, feeling stunned, and all around her they took it as lovestruck awe. Truly he had spun the lie so well that none scarce believed him capable of such perfidy. She took a deep, withering breath and exhaled. Then, straight-backed and proud despite her wounded pride, she turned and went in search of her companions.

And ran headlong into Cullen, who looked ready to flee as three women, weighed down in heavy silks and velvets, converged on his location.

“Care for a dance?” Hadiza asked and Cullen looked relieved.

“Yes!” He said, a bit too loudly. Hadiza smiled, finding strange comfort in his continued discomfort. He took her hand, and she led him to the floor to dance.

He’d improved.

The dance floor felt private, and her ears no longer burned.

“How fares the investigation?” Hadiza asked softly. With his focus now on matters he could understand and control, Cullen relaxed, leading with far more confidence than he had a year prior.

“Varric is investigating for any signs of collusion within the Comte’s circle. If anyone can find the name of who holds his leash, it’s that dwarf.” Cullen said as they swept across the floor. Hadiza felt half a dozen burning gazes searing into her back. “Ser Barris and the others have dismantled the ward on your chamber, but it was not easy. Whoever constructed it has more knowledge than the Order ever did. Still, it should make the days easier. This collar, though…”

Hadiza cleared her throat as they were separated for a duration, coming together as he caught her in his arms, spun her once, and they joined hands, regaining the river of rhythm as they moved across the floor.

“Do not worry about it.” Hadiza said firmly. “I need the chateau vulnerable.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed, and Hadiza thought wildly that she had found him so beautiful once. He still was, but her heart no longer leapt as it once did. “What do you plan to do?” He asked carefully, worried.

Hadiza said nothing but her mouth set in a grim line. Cullen decided then that the less he knew the better. He only hoped that whatever she planned would see her safely out of the Comte’s iron grasp.

The dance ended, and Cullen accorded her a bow as she curtsied. As Cullen retreated, Hadiza turned, and found herself face to face with the grotesque mask of Jean Luc.

“I believe I’ve claimed a dance from you, Inquisitor.” He said and Hadiza looked warily toward where Cullen had gone. She had no time for flirtatious merchants looking to curry her favor.

“And so you have.” She murmured. “But I’m afraid it will have to wait, as I’m quite parched.” She moved past him, whisking up her skirts to avoid any missteps.

“This can’t wait, princess.”

Hadiza froze. She felt something, like an echo, something ancient and powerful rising in her blood. The levy on her heart broke and she turned sharply, breath coming fast as she stared hard at the stranger before her who was no stranger at all.

Jean Luc bowed, offering his hand.

Hadiza took it, trembling, and the moment he touched her she **knew**.

Part of her knew it was _him_ from the moment their eyes met, but she had not dared believe. But those were his weary eyes looking back at her, the bloodshot mostly cleared, and the green of them, like new shoots in the spring. His face was obscured by the grotesque mask against disease wrought in the style of the Mortalitasi of Nevarra, but she knew him--Maker, she knew! She was at once rooted to the spot and untethered, spiraling up toward the sky in a scatter of light, unable to move for she had sprouted deep roots. And her heart leapt from her chest, yanked by some invisible cord, right into his waiting hands. Right where she wanted it. All it had taken was a single murmur of his name for her.

_Where they seek to sparkle, you shall demure._

And she had never been so glad for it.

Amidst the glittering peerage of Orlais, his princess shone like a beacon amidst storm-strangled seas. He saw her, her face half-obscured by the stern visage of the sun, while she herself represented the moon and stars, all burnished umber and stars for eyes.

And Orlais **loved** her, the crowd parting before her like a sigh of wind through the Dales. Samson wanted to run to her; want to take her by the hand and lead her out of the jaws of the lion, but he refrained, fixated on his savior in white and the role he came to play. The din of chatter, the fluttering accents of Orlesian greetings of “Your Worship”, the whisper of silk, velvet, lace, and the tinkling of bells...all of it was muted to his ears as she made her way to him.

Did she know him? _Would_ she know him? And if she did, how angry would she be that he defied her and an entire empire to come to her aid?

Samson knew in his heart that love had made him foolish and reckless.

But it had given him purpose, too. It had made him more bold, more daring, and against all odds, much, much braver. In his rage, he had flung his cares into the faces of his enemies, snarling and spitting blood. In his love, he set them aside, set his jaw, and took his Inquisitor to the dance floor, as protector and knight.

As they danced, the music slow and intimate, Samson recalled every drill Odette had run with him aboard _The Deliverance_ regarding dance. He held Hadiza as close as he dared, and led the way.

“Maker but it’s good to see you, girl.” He murmured as they dance. He delighted in the slight widening of her eyes and the part of her lips as she struggled with the shock of seeing him again.

“How did you find me?” She whispered, and there was an ocean of agony in it, as if her heart were too full to contain it all. Samson pursed his lips. He needed her to hold it together for a while longer.

“Ghost. She sent me here to help you.” He murmured. He pulled her a little closer. “Won’t believe what it took to get here. What’s going on?”

For a moment Hadiza was quiet.

“Not here.” She murmured. “Meet me later, in my chambers, after the guests have been allowed to walk the gardens.”

Samson wanted to say more--so much more!--but the dance was over too soon. He bowed, and for a moment she curtsied, smiling at him.

“You are skilled dancer, Messire Luc.” She said softly, and Samson smiled behind his mask.

“I learned from a skilled instructor, Lady Trevelyan.” He said, and he wanted nothing more than to reach for her. Instead, he walked away, presumably to quaff whatever passed for wine until he was sufficiently warm in the belly and could forget the fact that the sight of Hadiza made him more giddy than he’d ever been as a scrawny lad still playing with practice swords.

“Focus.” Odette’s voice was the brush of the whip on his skin and he jolted, finding her at his side. He smiled. Somehow, the siren was a comfort. She did not make his heart race.

“Why are you here, anyway?” Samson asked and he could feel Odette’s smile, all teeth, many of them gold. She held up her hand, producing a velveteen coin purse. Samson almost laughed.

“I thought you respected these people’s business?” He asked. Odette shrugged.

“My men have been working this party for its entire duration. If this Comte is indeed behind your current troubles, then these people supporting him deserve to be robbed for being so inordinately stupid.” She said simply. Samson watched, blinking as the coin purse vanished. Where was she keeping it?

“Can’t argue that.” He said, “Just don’t shatter any bones tonight. I’ve got to try and get to Her Worship, again.”

Odette took his arm. “Do not spoil your deception for love, Messire. She is playing a long game and stands to lose more if you lead with your damned pride and sword.”

Samson snorted. “I’m not some foolish young buck looking to play savior, Odette. I need her to tell me what’s going on so I can help.”

He searched the crowd, found her standing amidst three masked women, a crystalline glass of cordial in one hand. She was laughing, smiling, keeping the Orlesians entertained. Vivienne leaned over behind her fan, murmured something into her ear. Hadiza looked pleasantly surprised, and then smoothly extricated herself from the crowd of admirers. Samson decided to follow.

“Wait here.” He told Odette. “Keep the crowd busy while I go after her.”

Odette waved a dismissive hand, and he swore his belt felt light for want of a coin purse.

“Captain!” He hissed. Odette said nothing, but the weight returned and he grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Go.” And the command bolstered his confidence, even as Etienne descended upon them both.

“Messire Jean Luc!” He said with a seemingly malicious cordiality, turning both Samson and Odette’s head. “I am afraid I must apologize for my behavior earlier. Was rather rude of me, was it not? I was hoping, in light of the situation, and given your rather generous contribution, that we may smooth ruffled feathers, as it were.”

Samson stood a little straighter and met his adversary’s gaze. He wanted nothing more than to cleave the smug bastard’s head from his shoulders, but this was a supposedly civilized environment, and he’d not act like a complete brute, even if the pissant deserved it.

“You’re welcome to try.” He said in a neutral tone. Odette laughed and the sound was a cold hand on the skin, claws scraping at the bone, making Samson’s teeth ache. The Comte visibly shrank.

“Your…assistant seems to think this amusing,” Etienne said dryly, “do you allow all your underlings such free run of things?”

“He allows me _nothing_.” Odette replied, and the word was a worm, hollowing out the flesh, making Samson sick from it. Odette did little else but glance at the golden claws she wore on her fingertips. “But it is adorable that you think all places are as antiquated as Orlais. You would dismiss me even as your own Empress is a woman, and keeps a woman in her bed.”

Etienne scoffed. “I’d hardly call that brown knife-ear a woman.”

Odette’s gaze sharpened behind her mask. Samson gave an imperceptible shake of his head. It would do neither of them any good to antagonize him, much as it gave Samson a little joy to see Etienne quell under the preternatural effects of Odette’s voice.

“Come, Odette,” Samson murmured, “shall we? I fear the contribution we worked so hard to give a man with not a coin to his name has been a mistake. Perhaps we should send it to Rivain, instead? Have you a House in mind?”

Odette took his arm, regal as a queen. They began to turn away, toward the gardens.

“Oh, I can reach out to a few of them. Though the statue will have to be melted down and fashioned into something less self-absorbed and gaudy. I would that you—“

Etienne blocked their path.

“My lord Luc, lady Odette, perhaps I was a bit hasty in my…erm…dismissal. Allow me to make my apologies. I meant no insult to you, my lady, and I would that you could find it in your heart to forgive me.”

This time, it was Samson’s turn to laugh. The last creature in Thedas Etienne could beg forgiveness from was a siren—a creature whose heart was a cold stone at the bottom of the sea, loyal only to the swell, crest, and trough of the waves, and to the eternal call of the depths.

He would find no forgiveness, no quarter, no respite, and no mercy.

Odette’s power swirled in her throat, a note uttered just below the pitch of human hearing. Samson saw blood drip from Etienne’s nose. The Comte gasped.

“Excuse me.” He said, and rushed off, heading toward one of the stairs. Murmurs followed him, and someone swore they saw blood on his fine cambric shirt. Such a shame to ruin such fine fabric without having the decency to bleed into a monogrammed kerchief like a civilized human being.

Samson glanced down at Odette.

“I did not shatter his bones, as you asked.” She said. “But I bought you some time. He will need to find a new shirt, one he hasn’t worn before and one that actually matches his doublet and trousers. Go and find your lady before your heart breaks any further. I will keep this party going easy enough.”

Samson laughed, more in relief than anything.

“Thank you.” He murmured, squeezing her arm, even as she made her way toward the musicians. Samson turned and left, heading toward the gardens.

* * *

“So, it’s worse than we thought.” Hadiza said, glancing at the parchment in her hand. “I should have listened to Leliana…”

Josephine’s brows knit in concern but her eyes were soft with sympathy.

“If our spies are accurate—and they usually are—then this is where the Comte is getting his funding, and likely who is paying for this party.”

Vivienne scoffed. “We elevate a third-born son to status and this is what he decides to do with all of his money.” She said in a tired voice. “I would that you had consulted me, my dear, I could have told you this would eventually turn foul. Though this is a bit extreme.”

Hadiza sighed. “And Varric? You were successful?”

The dwarf shrugged. “More or less. These guys must really think they’re too big to fail at this point. They’re probably already uncorking the celebratory cordial.”

Hadiza shook her head. No, not yet, but close enough. She felt sick, at heart as well as in body. She felt slightly less stifled in the chateau, with Barris’ help silently dismantling the suppression wards around within, but the collar at her throat still pulsed, a note of silence that kept her magic sealed within her own body. She had not dreamed…those dreams, in a long while.

She wondered if she should tell the group Samson was here, but there was enough before them without considering that situation.

“Alright.” She said at last. “We have to make our move before the premier. We do need more evidence of the conspiracy. One vague note will not be enough to justify what I plan to do. The Empress will defer to us, of course, but…”

Thom frowned. “You plan to destroy your enemies in one fell swoop, Inquisitor?”

Hadiza’s face was hard. “Yes, and salt the earth upon which their fortune stood, if I must. Whatever we do, I cannot be seen as being merciful to those who would bite the hand that feeds them.”

“So you’d make a fist.” Thom said bitterly. “And an example. You sure you want to go through with this?”

Hadiza’s gaze was still hard, but slightly guilt-ridden.

“If I choose pacifism it gives others leave to consider me easy to target. But I will make an example of these people. They planned this for selfish and harmful aims. I’ll not be used to further their aspirations for power.”

Thom looked slightly disappointed and Hadiza looked away. She handed the parchment back to Josephine.

“Go.” She said. “Go mingle. Pretend there is naught amiss. Varric? Keep the gem on you. I have plans for it.”

“What about the collar?” Thom asked. Hadiza tapped the emerald at her throat thoughtfully.

“I have a plan. But for now, go and mingle. I need to think.”

They went, albeit reluctantly. Hadiza stood, still toying with the emerald at her throat. When she was sure her companions were back inside, she exhaled. There were, as yet, too many things to consider. She had the evidence she needed, but her next move would decide whether or not Orlais remained an ally or turned on the Inquisition. She sat on one of the stone benches by the fountain.

And then her voice was taken.

Hadiza did not need to ask to know that Etienne--or perhaps even Nasir himself--was toying with her. It did not matter, she had what she needed, voice or no voice.

“A bit peculiar, is it not, the lady of the hour out here alone?” The voice turned her head. She was surprised to find Samson, masked and uncharacteristically austere at her side. She glanced around, her gaze questioning. She did not see his companion whom to her knowledge never left his side. She opened her mouth to speak, forgetting, and finding only silence.

“Nothing to say, then?” Samson asked. “Or are you angry with me for coming?”

Hadiza glanced at him sharply. Samson tilted his head, shrugging. For a while, they sat in silence, with only the gentle babbling of the fountain to fill it between them. Hadiza sighed, soundless and forlorn.

“Much as I appreciate these long stretches of not talking, princess,” Samson said, “now’s not the time to be mum. I came here to help you, after all. Kind of blindsided me, saying yes to the Comte like that.”

Hadiza turned to him, eyes wide. He glanced at her through his mask, weary.

“I know you didn’t mean it.” He said sullenly. “And in another world, he’d be right for you, I like to think.” He felt angry at himself for saying it, but he knew deep down that even if this wasn’t all for show, he was not worthy of her in any case. How many times had he almost turned back and went back to Skyhold? How many times had he considered running?

He did not want to see her face, and he almost turned to look at her when he heard footsteps.

“Inquisitor.” It was Etienne. Samson tensed but relaxed immediately when Hadiza stood.

“My lord Comte.” She breathed, sketching a polite curtsy. Samson frowned; so she would not speak to him, then? Fine. He’d find his own way, and when he returned to Skyhold, let Ariadne know the Lady Inquisitor needed no help from him.

Hadiza turned to him.

“Excuse me, Messire Luc.” She murmured. “I have been too long from the guests. Perhaps we can speak another time? I tend to leave my window of opportunity open for such things, after all.”

Samson frowned, confused, but saying nothing. If she elected to pay him no mind, then he could do the same. Hadiza’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before she retreated back to the Comte’s side. For a moment, Samson forgot who he was supposed to be.

“I look forward to it, Inquisitor.” He said quietly, though no one heard him.

* * *

The fête continued apace, and Hadiza hated every moment of it, knowing that within days the Inquisition could be compromised. Still, nothing troubled her so much as Samson’s veiled accusation. Did he truly think so little of her as to think she would have accepted a man as vile as Etienne on principle? Did he think her so concerned with titles and public opinion that she would cast him aside for one?

She was so angry she could scream, and yet, Etienne did not even have to employ the Seer’s Star in order to render her speechless. She was quiet all on her own.

“You look so angry, my lady,” Etienne said to her as they danced again, to the admiration of all assembled, “why? Did that merchant say somewhat to offend you?”

As angry as she was with Samson for defying her instructions, and for accusing her of wanting this vile man before her, she would not compromise him for the sake of venting.

“It is your manner that offends me, my lord.” She said quietly as they pressed close, too close even for such a traditionally intimate dance. “I would see this charade ended and justice to strangle the throats of you and your co-conspirators.”

Etienne’s eyes glittered beneath his mask, intrigued and amused.

“Ah, so that’s what your little companions are about.” He said. “I had a feeling you were all up to something. No matter, it will avail you nothing. Tomorrow, we will be wed, and everything that is yours becomes mine. This includes your life, Lady Trevelyan.”

Hadiza’s eyes turned frosty and she felt her mana surge in her skin, eager for an outlet, trapped for want of the cursed gem at her throat.

“You might come to regret this, my lord.” She said evenly. “I have been told I can be difficult to deal with.”

Etienne’s fingertips deftly plucked at the emerald at her throat, drifting low to brush against the curves of her breasts making her flinch.

“Lying does not become you, my lady.” He whispered, holding her close. To the outside observer, it was a risqué embrace, and Hadiza felt her stomach roil when she felt him, hard and hot through the suede of his breeches against her thigh. She hated him, hated what he planned to do to her and everything she worked for.

All for _money_.

“Dismiss your companions, Hadiza.” Etienne warned. “Or I will have them all killed.”

“They will leave when the fête is at its end.” Hadiza said through gritted teeth. “Not a moment sooner.”

Etienne leaned in close, the very picture of intimacy.

“Then I will end it, now. And then you and I can discuss our very prosperous future together as husband and wife.”

Hadiza put her fist in his gut, quickly, taking joy in the fact that she caught him unaware. He crumpled, and she caught him, steadying him.

“My lord!” She cried as a susurrus of murmurs and gasps arose around them. “Are you alright?”

Etienne glared up at her. Hadiza smiled back at him, feigning, for once in her life, the compassion that had become what she was known for. She spared none of it for Etienne, and instead cupped his face in her hands, her nails trailing along his mask.

“It’s alright.” She said loud enough for the assembled crowd to hear. “A mere accident is all.”

She lowered herself to him, whispering, “I decide who lives and dies, my lord. And I decide to whom I tether my life.”

She helped him to his feet, smoothing his doublet like a dutiful bride and her husband, clucking her tongue.

“Your shirt…is it new?” She asked absently. Etienne was about to open his mouth to retort when Vivienne swept in, Ser Barris on her arm.

“Inquisitor, can I steal you from your doting betrothed for a moment? You must hear the news coming from Montfort. It concerns a certain sweet you’re fond of.” Vivienne spoke with absolute certainty that there was news from Montfort, and Hadiza, relieved and aching to be away from Etienne, believed her.

“Oh it is no trouble at all, Madame Vivienne. Ser Barris! I am so glad to see you again! How fares your work?” As the trio moved off, Vivienne barely glanced back at Etienne, who at least had the decency to mask his incensed mien.

“Come.” Vivienne said and led Hadiza out into one of the drawing rooms. The other companions were seated, but Dorian was staring pensively at the emerald dangling from the gold chain. The Seer’s Star.

“We have a problem, Hadiza.” Dorian said. “A serious one.”

Hadiza swallowed. “What is it?”

Varric scoffed. “The swap was a bust. All that trouble. Nasir knew someone would make a go for it, swapped out the real one with a fake before we got there. Someone must have tipped him off.”

Hadiza felt her breath catch in her throat, felt her chest go tight. The world seemed to be spinning, and yet she was standing still. She felt her ears burn. Vivienne’s brow knit in concern and she quickly guided Hadiza to a seat.

“What?” She breathed, her breath short and labored. “ _What_?”

Dorian pursed his lips. “We either have someone who is a spy, or Nasir is just that paranoid, as well he should be. There’s another problem as well.”

Hadiza did not think she could handle anymore problems. She became acutely aware of the choker’s tightness, the emerald’s weight, and how trapped she felt. Dorian at least had the courtesy to notice and look concerned.

“The piece of the Seer’s Star around your neck has sigils etched into its facets.” Dorian explained. “All of which are components of a larger spell, likely linked to the main piece. However, there’s one issue with yours that will require…delicacy.”

Hadiza waved her hand. “Out with it, Dorian. I can’t take this anymore.”

“The piece around your neck has sigils for a fire rune. I believe whatever the greater spell they plan to activate will result in your death.”

Hadiza stared, felt herself floating outside of her body. Part of her knew—suspected—that this was the endgame of Etienne and his conspirators. Why else would he want to be married so soon? Marriage would give him rights and access to all that was hers, including the Inquisition. She doubted that anyone would accept him as her replacement, given the loyalties she built, but his reputation was all but sterling, and with her wealth and that of his benefactor’s, he could buy out his debt and still live like a king.

Maker!

“Can’t we nullify it with a templar?” Hadiza heard herself ask. “Would that not prevent the spell from activating?”

“Yes and no.” Dorian said. “Even if we deactivated it, there is still the matter of the Seer’s Star—the real one—being at large. My research suggests that Nasir does not realize how powerful it is, nor its full capabilities. It also suggests that he may be more powerful than we realize if he was able to find it, let alone harness its power.”

Hadiza put her face in her hands.

“Perhaps I can help.” A new voice said, and at once they turned. Several spells at the ready, the click of a crossbow, and the whisper of steel as swords were partially unsheathed.

Odette stood, looking amused at the whole display.

“You command loyalty unlike anything I’ve ever seen, Lady Trevelyan.” She practically purred, and Hadiza felt the voice’s power, and barely resisted the urge to moan from the sensation of it against her skin.

“Maker’s shitting breath…” She heard Thom whisper, clearing his throat.

“Mm.” Odette said. “You are right, Tevinter, in that Nasir is a powerful mage. In fact, he is here tonight. I would suggest—“ Odette’s voice was a grip on all of their throats, “—that you bring him in for questioning and then kill him. If he is dead, the Seer’s Star is yours to destroy or hide or use as you wish, and Comte de Piedmont loses his staunch mage ally.”

“Who is this woman?” Vivienne asked Hadiza. Hadiza swallowed.

“A friend of Ariadne’s, I’m guessing.” She said breathlessly. Odette inclined her head, saying nothing to refute or confirm the statement. Frankly, none in the room could blame her. Ariadne thrived on the ambiguity of people’s standing with her. Odette entered the room, moving as no woman could, her eyes lingering on Vivienne with very high interest. Vivienne lifted a brow, a silent inquiry.

Odette threaded a path through their group, her lips hooked in a predatory smirk as she passed wayward fingertips across Hadiza’s shoulders, both as comfort and interest.

“The Seer’s Star is familiar to me.” Odette continued. “And it explains why one of our esteemed guests was invulnerable to my...charms. The gem is lined with compulsory magic, a distilled version of the magic I use. It is nowhere near as versatile, but it is still formidable.”

Dorian looked intrigued, more for the sake of the theory than the solution.

“Necromancy operates on a similar magic.” He said. “It could be our solution lays in this.”

Odette turned to look at him over her shoulder, shrugging one brocaded shoulder.

“Yes. Necromancy is a branch of compulsory magic, but not very effective on the living. This magic is powered by a malevolent spirit of the Dreamscape.”

“That is the Rivaini description of the Fade.” Vivienne said thoughtfully. “Is it heathen bush magic, then?”

Odette had the dignity to look offended. She made a sound and Hadiza saw Vivienne’s jaw clench against whatever spell her voice evoked. Hadiza stood up.

“That’s enough, Odette!” She snapped and Odette went silent.

“So there’s some fight in you after all.” She laughed, a sound like rubbing silk between one’s fingers. “I was beginning to think the templar a fool for loving such a spineless creature.”

Hadiza drew back as if struck. She moved toward Odette, mana surging in her blood like the first burst of creation.

The Seer’s Star bit back, sending her into a reluctant retreat. Odette wagged her finger.

“Do not attempt to beat against the boundaries set against you, Inquisitor. The only way to truly destroy this thing, and all of its linked spells, is to either free its source or destroy it.”

Vivienne’s face contorted in a disgusted frown. “You mean free the demon that powers the spell. Inquisitor did we learn nothing of our encounter with Imshael in Emprise du Lion? Are we to repeat that foolish chevalier’s mistake and unleash yet another horror upon the world?”

Hadiza looked away. She had been so disgusted that Michel had been so foolish that she’d banished him to the Hissing Wastes where she was certain he could do no harm. In truth, she regretted it, but after her experience with chevaliers, she could not find it in her heart to send for him.

“No.” Hadiza said firmly. “We will kill the demon, as we have killed so many before it.”

“Great to hear.” Varric said. “I was beginning to think your mercy was about to extend to trapped demons for a minute there.”

Hadiza shot him a dark look then winced, her hand going to her throat.

“I have to go.” Hadiza said harshly. Then, to Odette, she turned and opened her mouth to speak. “Find Nasir. Get me that damned artifact so we can shatter it. Then I’m going to put his head on a fucking pike.”

She moved to leave the room, then hesitated.

“And send a raven to Skyhold. Tell Ariadne to send her agents to the Duchy of Lydes. I’ve had enough of Orlais.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Leave one if you with me. ✌


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who can resist a siren's call?

Hadiza emerged from the drawing room feeling renewed. She had regained some semblance of an upper-hand, and Etienne was, in her eyes, a dead man walking. He met her, of course, taking her hands in his as she played the doting and adoring betrothed, looking besotted.

“What schemes are you hatching, my lady?” He asked through his false smile. Hadiza tilted her head, coy and reticent. When she smiled she could see his lovely mouth twist into a brief and slight frown before he resumed his pretense. His grip on her hands, however, tightened to an almost painful degree. Hadiza gritted her teeth. She had endured worse.

The music started, a slow and almost mournful melody. Etienne turned, surprised, and even Hadiza was caught off guard.

“It would seem you are not the only one under my roof with a proclivity for disobedience.” He muttered darkly, and released her to go have a word with the musicians. Hadiza rubbed her aching hands, frowning.

“Princess.” Samson said from behind her and she startled with a gasp. Samson chuckled. “Sorry…”

Hadiza turned to him.

“What are you about?” She demanded. “You’re going to jeopardize the entire plan.”

Samson scoffed. “I am doing what you told me to do, Hadiza.”

“No,” Hadiza shot back in a fierce whisper, “you are not. Because if you were, you’d be back at Skyhold, not here playing pretend!”

Samson tipped his head, the light catching the glittering malice in his eyes behind his grotesque mask. Hadiza inhaled through flared nostrils. Samson produced two balls of beeswax.

“Put these in your ears.” He ordered. “And thank me later.”

Hadiza took the beeswax, her expression wary. Samson made to look as if he’d stuff her ears himself but she quickly plugged her ears. Suddenly, the world was a muffled cacophony of garbled nonsense. Samson plugged his own ears and accorded her a bow.

That was when the singing began.

As Vivienne and Cullen emerged from the drawing room, with Thom and Aja close behind, Hadiza saw them all swaying, suddenly, on unsteady feet. She went to them but Samson took her by the arm, giving a subtle shake of his head.

They collapsed to the floor.

Hadiza glanced around, alarmed, saw the musicians still playing and Odette singing. The musician’s ears were plugged too but it was only then Hadiza guessed that they were...part of all of this.

All around her men and women began to collapse, asleep or unconscious, guided to the floor by the masked men and women Odette had brought with her. Hadiza could only hope they were alive and that whatever spell was being spun was temporary, but they were so still. The singing continued, and Hadiza felt herself yawning, but Samson shook her vigorously. She was vaguely aware of him speaking, but it was all muddled, as if she were underwater.

Everything was still, and everyone was on the floor. Hadiza wanted to join them; sleep sounded so excellent in that moment.

Everyone who hadn’t had the decency to plug their ears was asleep on the floor, save one wicked-looking fennec.

The music stopped, and Odette’s song faded, but Hadiza felt it in her bones, a faint compulsion that urged her to collapse and sleep, that induced a weariness in her she did not know she had.

She unplugged her ears, felt the unheard ringing in them as the world resumed sound. As one, she and Samson turned to the fennec-masked guest, the only one amidst the collapsed revelers who had not so much as swayed in time to the music, or with any uncertainty.

“See?” Odette said, laughing. “There is your culprit.”

The fennec bolted, and Samson and Hadiza took off. Hadiza kicked off her shoes, leaping over collapsed bodies, feeling a pang of regret and fear when she heard the delicate fabric of her dress rip up to her thigh. She shed the sheer overcoat, the errant fabric fluttering in her wake like fine stardust.

Outside, in the garden, the fennec made for the stables, and as they passed the fountain, Samson nearly stumbled when the water suddenly surged, leaving a trail of ice behind his prey. Hadiza, unfortunately, did not see it, and slipped, landing hard on her hands and knees and struggling to regain her footing.

“Shit!” She cursed, forsaking civility and decorum for what she truly needed to be in that moment.

Samson hauled her up, dispelling the ice with the force of his will alone. The fennec turned on them, bringing with it a ball of fire. Samson spun a sphere of annulment, and the flames passed around himself and Hadiza, who looked ill. He had forgotten that her magic was still being suppressed, but it didn’t matter.

He spun a sphere of silence around the fennec’s head, causing them to cry out.

Hadiza wasted no time, using her mask as she threw it, and it whirled like a star, catching the fennec in the head, knocking its mask clear; and then rushing forward to continue her assault. With her magic, she was a formidable opponent, quick and relentless, and brutal if need be; without it, she was merely brutal. Samson winced when he heard her fists connecting with pliant flesh. She hit Nasir once, then twice, left, and then right. She took him by the head, bringing her knee up. Nasir’s head connected with a sickening thud.

Blood poured from Nasir’s nose, splattering and soiling Hadiza’s white dress as he stumbled backward, gasping for breath.

“You mad bitch!” He practically shrieked. Hadiza, still panting, came for him again, and silenced, Nasir scrambled back, reaching into his coat and withdrawing the Seer’s Star. Hadiza stopped short, wary as a predator who knew herself outclassed.

“That’s right,” Nasir said, triumphant despite the blood that stained his mouth and teeth, “you know what it does, what it is. Tell your bloodhound to stand down!”

Hadiza hesitated, ready to come for him again, both fists bloody and already bruising. She wasn’t sure why he still feared Samson when she was the one ready to beat him within an inch of his life.

Nonetheless, the emerald at her throat began to burn, much worse than it ever had, and her hands flew to her throat, croaking in pain. Whatever abilities Etienne had been granted paled in comparison to the power in the hands of another mage--a skilled one at that.

Nasir’s smile was maniacal as he stood taller, brandishing the Seer’s Star like a lantern.

“Stand down, Messire.” Hadiza gritted out. Samson hesitated but when she cried out again, he withdrew his power, and it was like a breath of fresh air after suffocating. Nasir visibly sighed in relief.

“The Most Holy was right to dissolve the Order.” Nasir sneered. “Your abilities are an abomination to all magic.”

Samson stripped off his mask.

“Aye.” He said, spitting contemptuously. “And you’re using a demon to do your dirty work. Least I’m being used for my chosen purpose.”

Nasir’s lip curled, his sneer made all the more menacing for the blood caked around her teeth.

“A spirit of compulsion is hardly a demon,” he said calmly, “but I suppose to an ignorant brute from a place like Kirkwall, everything remotely out of the ordinary is a demon.”

Hadiza frowned, still thrumming with violent energy.

“I know who hired you, Nasir.” She said. “You and all of your co-conspirators will hang for this.”

Nasir had regained some of his cool disposition.

“Will we?” He asked serenely, nodding toward Samson. “As he did? As the murdering Thom Rainier did? Yes, yes, Inquisitor, your penchant for brutal punishment is well-known to me and my employer. I would love to see your...gallows, one day.”

Hadiza’s knuckles went pale and she started forward again but Nasir’s eyes flared once and she was driven to her knees, clutching her throat.

“That’s enough!” Samson snapped. “You’ve made your point. What do you want?”

Nasir swung the artifact back and forth in a pendulum motion.

“Tell your...pet...or whatever that thing is...to stay away from me and my operations.” He said, and Samson glanced back, and saw Odette melting from one shadow, smirking. She had not shirked her mask, but Samson could feel the smirk on her face, he didn’t know why.

“Nasir Anwar.” Odette’s voice was rich, like liquid chocolate spilling from the broken crust of a pastry. Nasir’s lip curled, even though he was protected from the spell of her gift by virtue of the artifact in his hand.

“You have been playing with a toy that does not belong to you.” Odette continued. “But you will find your regret in time, I think.” She turned to Samson, who held her gaze.

“This is where my aid comes to an end, my dear templar.” She reached up, cupping his cheek. “I have spent the coin of the boon I owe you thrice over. But whatever you and your lovely lady decide to do, be sure it ends in blood. His crimes--and that of his compatriots--demand no less.”

Odette turned her awful masked gaze on Nasir.

“You will never see me again,  _ masihirci _ .” She said, lifting her mask that he might glimpse a little of what lurked behind. At Nasir’s gasp, she laughed, a sound that even now haunted Samson. “But you may come to wish that you did, soon.”

And with that, Odette left them, presumably to return to her men, and steal off with the spoils they’d collected for the evening. Samson swore to himself he would never take another pirate vessel again in his life, but he could not begrudge her backing out. She had no dog in this fight, and whatever had compelled her to follow him this far, he would not ask. Perhaps she had answered an unspoken question. Either way, they were on their own.

“You’ve got one of your demands.” Samson said to Nasir. “Let the Inquisitor go.”

Nasir smirked. “If we did not still need her, I would burn her head clean from her shoulders.”

“And you’d not live long enough to enjoy the victory.” Samson said, no warning but a promise. “The Inquisitor’s head is  **mine** .”

Hadiza thought, in the absurdity of that moment, that she had never been more proud to be the enemy of this man, who had spat blood in her face when they met in battle. How had she come to love him so dearly?

They stood, at an impasse. Nasir would demand no more than his limits imposed, but nor would he free the Inquisitor.

“I will take my leave, for now, and leave you your lives as recompense for the disaster you’ve wreaked this night.” Nasir sneered. “But it is good to know the rumors about the two of you are true. We may not need the Inquisitor alive when this comes to light.”

Hadiza frowned, but she said nothing, her silver eyes smoldering like starfire. Nasir bowed, and as he turned, he blurred from sight, leaving an echo of his laughter.

“Put your mask back on.” Hadiza said. Samson collected his mask from where he’d discarded it.

“There’s no point, princess. By morning they’ll know--”

“I  **said** \--” Hadiza’s voice held no siren godmark, but she  _ was  _ the Inquisitor--his Inquisitor, no less, in so many ways--and so the word was a whipcrack that stung him in a way nothing on his flesh could. “Put. Your. Mask. On.”

Samson put his mask on, not daring to try her patience further. Hadiza collected her mask, running her fingers over the dented material. Then, she fixed it back to her face, pinning it up into her disheveled hair.

“What now?” Samson asked, feeling at a loss. Hadiza held out her hand. Not knowing why, he took it.

“I don’t know.” She said. “This night is a mess already. We need to get the Seer’s Star or all of this was for nothing.”

Samson nodded. “You should have let me have him, princess.”

“I know.” She whispered. “It was cowardly of me. I should have put the mission first.”

Samson frowned. In a way, she was right, but he could not fault her self-preservation instinct.

“You made a faulty call,” he agreed, “but I’m glad you did. I can’t say I’d be alright with losing you when my entire reason for being here was to save you.”

She glanced up at him, and for a moment Samson was put in the mind of a deity. Perhaps she was, the way her eyes searched his face with a quiet inquiry.

“Save me?” She repeated back, a question rife with confusion and wonder. “Samson, you…” She laughed, casting her eyes downward. Samson’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. And then, without preamble, Hadiza hugged him, pressed him close. Samson was surprised, at first, stumbling, and then he realized that after weeks of being without her,  _ this  _ was all that he wanted. His arms came around her and he savored the precious moment as it stretched into a shimmering wake behind them, a moment in time never to be regained. He hoped, in the deepest part of himself, that the lyrium would not rob him of this memory; of the only one who mattered to him holding him as if he were a lifeline.

Or a hero.

Hadiza breathed deep, realizing with a moment of exalted joy that this was what she missed more than anything. She wanted nothing more than to hold him like this forevermore, to breathe deep the scent of earth from his skin, and a bit of the wind and the sea, and to exhale all of her fear.

She loved him. Ah Maker, it felt  _ good  _ to affirm it; to know that weeks apart had only deepened whatever she felt for him.

A throat clearing noise interrupted them both, and they found themselves watched by Aja and Dorian, the former who was grinning ear to ear.

“If you’re done celebrating your spectacular failure, I’d like to propose we...pursue our prey into his nest, perhaps?” Dorian suggested. Hadiza stepped away from Samson prudently, biting her lip.

“He won’t be there.” She said. “It’s likely he’ll go somewhere to lick his wounds but it won’t be there. Visage du Soleil is no fortress.”

“We don’t know that.” Aja said. “Could be he doesn’t think we’ll pursue him. If all of them are trained bards, he’ll be protected by his own. No safer place to be than among friends, right?”

Hadiza sighed. “It’s possible, but if we go to Visage du Soleil, now, we must be prepared for anything.”

Aja grinned, looking menacing in the darkness, moonlight glinting off of her gold teeth.

“That is why we came, sister.” She said. “Shall we? The revelers will be asleep for a while according to your...mysterious ally.”

Samson snorted. “Ally no longer,” he said bitterly, “expect no help from her.”

Hadiza waved her hand. “No matter. Let me fetch my armor and weapons and we’ll pursue Nasir.”

Thus in agreement, the Inquisitor and her inner circle set out into the chateau. It was an eerie scene, to be greeted with pageantry one moment, and collapsed bodies, asleep and in repose, the next. Guests and servants alike slumbered where they fell from the siren’s voice, dreamlike and content. Amidst the sea of silk and velvet clad bodies, Hadiza picked her way to the stairs. Vivienne was helping Dorian to his feet, rubbing her eyes and stifling a yawn.

Upstairs, Hadiza went to Etienne’s chambers, knowing what to expect. Samson was at her back, a sinister shadow, senses strained for any sign of danger. As they entered the Comte’s bedchamber, Hadiza was careful about not touching anything.

“Hadiza,” Samson said, “the thing on your neck. You need to be at full strength to face whatever is in that place.” When Hadiza ignored him, pacing around the enormous room in search of her armor stand, Samson took her arm. “Princess, listen to me.”

Hadiza turned to him, her gaze sharp.

“You have got to set aside your anger with me and think straight.” Samson told her. “I disobeyed your orders, I’ll own that. Punish me when the danger is over and we’re back at Skyhold. Put me in the stocks, clap me in chains, whatever you want, but you drafted me as your protector and I aim to do my job.”

Hadiza looked away.

“Do you know what this will look like, Samson?” She asked. “Do you understand the amount of work that will be undone now that we’ve been seen together in public?”

Samson frowned behind his mask, wanting to take it off.

“I do.” He said. “And quite frankly, in this moment, don’t much care. Your safety is my priority and had I not come with Odette you’d still be down there getting fondled by that stuff-shirt bastard.”

“I wasn’t--” Hadiza started but Samson gave her a hard look.

“I saw him, Hadiza. And I saw your face when he did. You were ready to tear out of your own skin.” Samson searched her face, shut his eyes, and sighed. “Are you alright?” He asked, after a brief and aching silence. Hadiza stood still, eyes wide, her lips parted. Then, slowly, she shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes.

Samson drew her into his arms and held her close. Hadiza discarded her mask, shuddering in his embrace. He held her for a long time, and Hadiza took fistfuls of his shirt, which grew wet with her tears. Weeks of frustration, of helplessness, of  _ powerlessness _ , unleashed in a single, soundless sob, her body reverberating with it. When it was done, Samson dipped his head, dropping a comforting kiss to her hair.

When it was done, Hadiza pulled back, wiping her nose with her soiled sleeve.

“Remy is going to kill me.” She said, laughing through the remnants of her tears. Samson smirked.

“Send him to me, then.” He said and Hadiza laughed again.

“I am not letting you kill my couturier.” She said. Samson brushed a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb.

“Not planning to kill him. Just...have a stern talking to, is all.” He glanced around. “Ah. There she is.”

Hadiza turned, following his gaze. There, next to what could only be Etienne’s chevalier armor, was her own. On the desk beside it was her partisan, a marvel of dwarven ingenuity. Scattered around were parchments with sketches, and dozens of question marks. Etienne had been trying to reconstruct its design. It was clear he’d failed.

Hadiza began stripping out of her dress, tossing the soiled remains at Samson, who caught them easily. Then, he helped her armor up. He had to admit, seeing Hadiza in her armor again gave him a swell of pride he could not have fathomed before the first moment he kissed her.

Hadiza tested the straps and buckles of various parts, as well as her greaves, vambraces, and gloves. Then, she snatched up her weapon.

“Well, then. There is one thing left to do.” She said. Samson nodded, stepping close. 

For a while they stood there, at arm’s length, and Samson felt her in his blood, the way his heart leapt despite how calm he appeared. He couldn’t be angry with her, not for doing what she needed to do to survive. He wanted to gather her up in his arms again, the eyes of the Court be damned, but he withheld his hand and cannibalized his own agony, taking a small pleasure in the denial, knowing the day he could truly hold her—when this mess, and every other mess was sorted out—would be all the sweeter. But a large part of him was convinced that day would never come.

“I love you.” Hadiza whispered to him, as he held her again, mindful of her armor. “And I really wish I didn’t sometimes. You defied my orders to come here.”

“I know.” Samson murmured back as they stood in the undefinable presence of everything they came to mean to one another. “It is no easy thing, to be loved by the Inquisitor, and if I defied you it was for good cause, princess…and under your damnable sister’s instructions.” He squeezed her hand, a gentle reassurance. “What were we thinking?”

She laughed, a sound devoid of magic but Samson felt chills along his skin all the same.

“I thought it would be easy to hate you; maybe you’d give me cause to regret my decision. All the wrong you’ve done. And yet, for all the blood on your hands, you have more decency in you than the man who collared me and is hailed as a hero.” She said bitterly, then turned her gaze up at him, brow furrowed in consternation.

“Why did you have to be this?” She asked and though she said nothing else, Samson knew what she was asking.

“If I wasn’t, would you have loved me?” He asked. His heart skipped like a stone across placid waters, and he hoped she wouldn’t drown it before long. Could she have loved him in another life when he wasn’t this bitter and ugly creature he had become?

Hadiza hesitated. “You would have joined our cause. You would have been...different.”

“Maybe so.” Samson said, knowing it for only a half-truth. “But could you have loved the man I used to be? He wasn’t exactly a paragon of purity either.”

The man he used to be would never have been so bold as to touch her. She was too damned beautiful, too damned good for him, and the man he used to be still hesitated around mages of her power and skill. She might have loved him if he tried--if  _ she  _ tried, because loving her was so damned easy to do--but the man he used to be would have never seen past the lyrium droplets on her lovely lips long enough to see what her love was worth, nor what he could be worth to her.

She shrugged. “Does it matter? I love you, now.”

Samson smiled halfheartedly. “No, suppose it doesn’t. But it matters to the rest of the world, princess.”

“ _ Fuck _ the rest of the world.” She breathed, reckless and harsh, eyes flashing with that thunderstorm passion he had come to love in her. Samson reached up, traced the line of her brow with a finger. As much as he longed for her to fling caution to the wind and claim him, he didn’t dare give voice to a desire so fragile. But he dreamed it; those other lives where he could walk by her side in the light, where he could wake up in her bed and not feel as if he did not belong there, as if he were merely warming it for someone else, someone more worthy than he.

Where he could love her as openly and fearlessly as he did behind closed doors.

Sensing his thoughts, it seemed, Hadiza reached up and tugged his mask up, just enough to expose his mouth, and then she kissed him…or he kissed her. It did not matter because Samson had missed the sensation of kissing her, of feeling the echoing taste of lyrium on her tongue, of honey, of  _ her _ . She smelled of some fragrance that evoked the imagery of far warmer climes than the south, and she tasted like home. But there was still something off about it all: her silence.

Hadiza’s magic was still bound.

It angered him, in truth, to not be able to feel the current of her mana active inside of her, raising the hairs on his arms and neck. It pained him that a man as unworthy as Etienne had sought to bind her power within her own flesh. A woman with her abilities was not meant to be collared—not like the qunari did their mages, treating them like magical savages.

Samson’s hand splayed against her chest, his fingers wrapped around the emerald, and he summoned faith and conviction from the well within himself he thought had long since dried and cracked apart.

The smite came almost instantly, and he heard Hadiza’s gasp for breath, her shock as air rushed from her, pupils shrinking as she clung to him. The moment ended as Hadiza felt her power—bound for so long—surge within her, a tidal wave of sheer force and raw power, and Samson grunted from the renewed sensation, bracing himself. 

He pressed a kiss to Hadiza’s mouth.

“Breathe.” He told her. Hadiza shut her eyes again and exhaled, and with it came the frost of the bitterest of winters. Samson shivered, and when she opened her eyes, he saw the fine circuitry of lyrium blue chasing paths in her irises, echoes of raw magic in her blood. She inhaled, taking the frost back.

Samson took his hand away from the emerald, and it was warm from his touch. Sweat soaked his forehead and brow, and he felt tired. It was a considerable smite, and it took the last of the lyrium dosage in his blood to do it. But she was free. Hadiza took the soiled and bloodstained gown from the floor and hung it on the armor stand. She smoothed its wrinkles and folds with a tenderness that was almost comical. It hung, limp and tattered, stained with blood that was not hers, forlorn and ruined.

She turned to Samson, looking like a deposed queen in her armor, which gleamed menacingly in the shifting light of the candles. Her grip on her gilded weapon tightened, and her lovely brows drew together in a frown, silver eyes like the edge of a honed blade in their sharpness and intensity.

“Let’s go burn Visage du Soleil to the ground.” She said in a low voice. Samson wanted to enjoy it, but something in her eyes chilled his blood. They left the room, but not before Hadiza planted a rune on the bedroom floor. Samson didn’t ask what it was, and when she planted another rune on the heavy door, he was sure he didn’t want to know.

He gave the room one last glance, wondering if he should dispel the rune, but then he remembered Etienne’s hands on Hadiza, her pained expression, and the smoldering outrage in her bright eyes. He shut the door.

* * *

The ride to Val Royeaux was slow despite the urgency. With Odette’s sleeping spell holding until the sun was sighted, they had only a handful of hours to do their deed. Hadiza tasked Samson, Dorian, and Varric to accompany her, and tasked Vivienne, Thom, and Aja to see to the chateau and ensure everyone—including Etienne—remained alive. Josephine and Cullen were to rendezvous with an agent and see to it that Ariadne was contacted post-haste. Josephine was already dreading the fallout from this night, but when Hadiza laid out the extensiveness of the crimes, she understood and began drafting the letter to Empress Celene immediately, under Hadiza’s explicit order. One thing was made clear: the Inquisitor was furious.

Hadiza cut a menacing figure astride her Friesian, entering Val Royeaux like a vengeful goddess, leaving a trail of enraged frost in her wake. She did not bear the Inquisition standard, as she normally did on official occasions, but it was emblazoned upon her armor, and fluttered on the pennant on her partisan. Samson could taste her power, gathering like the thunderheads of a devastating winter storm on the coast. He feared that if her fury was allowed to build higher, she would call down the very sea to drown the city. It was not that he minded—Samson bore precious little love for Orlais—it was that he had never seen her so furious. Already, she had sent for Duke de Bettencourt by use of Ariadne’s network, and the Duke of Lydes, Jean-Gaspard.

And now, she rode with the explicit intent of destroying Visage du Soleil, an old institution that birthed the most talented of artists and the deadliest of bards. How she intended to do it, Samson did not know, but her fury was palpable.

They came upon Visage du Soleil which was shrouded in silence, lit only by sparse lanterns along its elegant steps. Hadiza reined Nyx to a halt, and the beast snorted in protest, as if he too longed for vengeance for being denied the company of his mistress for so long. Hadiza patted his great neck, and rubbed between his ears. Almost immediately, she dismounted, graceful and composed. Dorian dismounted soon after, followed by Varric and Samson.

“Inquisitor,” Varric said, and there was a resonant note in his voice that turned her head. “Are you sure you’re up for this? I mean, I know you’re probably mad enough to tear a man’s arms off right now, but we’ve got absolutely no plan and quite frankly, we’re probably outclassed. Visage du Soleil has been around a long, long time…and they’re…pretty much as sterling in reputation as the Crows, here, if we’re being honest.”

Hadiza took a deep breath, one Samson knew meant she hated hearing the truth. The dwarf was right; they were outmatched by virtue of not even knowing what enemy they faced.

“I have to get that gem, Varric.” She said irritably. “If Nasir uses it, it could wreak havoc on us all.”

Varric shouldered Bianca with barely a grunt of effort despite the massive size of the unique crossbow.

“You’re the boss, but I think we should think this through. You just left behind an entire house filled with some of the most important members of the Court, and Comte de Piedmont himself. You sure you wanna leave a viper at your back and not expect to feel its bite in the morning?”

Hadiza gritted her teeth, turning her gaze to the impregnable marble, stone, and gilded expanse of Visage du Soleil. The very structure seemed to challenge her, and mock her for her dilemma.

She let out a quiet, forceful swear, bowing her head.

“The premier is in two days. If our antics from tonight doesn’t damage attendance—and it won’t, this is Orlais—then we need a way to infiltrate the stage.”

Varric chuckled. “Inquisitor, say no more. Infiltration, I can do.”

Hadiza shook her head. “No, Varric. This is...this requires Ariadne’s expertise.”

Thom laughed derisively. “Ariadne’s expertise? You plan on leaving no survivors or witnesses, my lady?”

Hadiza never tore her gaze away from the building. Nasir was safe, for now, but he had to know that the full brunt of her attention would be on him until he was caught. Either he would flee, or he would see this through to its conclusion. Hadiza hoped he had more of a spine than she gave him credit for if only because she had no way of containing him just yet. Not with such a dangerous artifact as the Seer’s Star at large.

“Alright, then.” She said at last. “I will go back to the chateau with Vivienne and Thom to put Etienne to questioning. Varric, you and Samson stay here. Cullen, have Josephine draft a formal letter to Celene requesting a private audience. Make it urgent.” She wheeled her horse back toward the city’s gates.

“What of Nasir?” Vivienne asked quietly. Hadiza’s eyes flashed like lightning in cloud cover.

“We will have him. The net closes even as we speak. For now, let us see what the Comte knows.”

_ And for everything he doesn’t know, I will hurt him anyway.  _ Hadiza thought venomously, and gasped, startled at the violence of her own thoughts. It felt strange to her, to so covet another’s pain in this way. It felt wrong, and dirty, and she wanted to bathe and scrub herself clean of such an unworthy thought. Even if what he’d done to her was reprehensible, he did not deserve to be put to torture. No one did. No, she would grant him the judgement and sentencing he earned, no more.

Still, something in her whispered through the walls of her reasoning, urging her to break the shackles of self-control and make examples of the Comte--of all of them. It was tempting, and given her power, it would be all too easy.

As the others broke off, heading back to their lodgings, Samson pulled his horse up alongside hers. Hadiza glanced at him sidelong, already weary.

“What?” She asked when his silence had gone on for a span most would call unsettling. Samson remained silent, but she could feel his gaze on her, an unspoken question.

“Don’t let your anger turn you into someone you aren’t.” Samson said quietly. Hadiza frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She demanded, her tone crackling with heat. Samson fixed her with a knowing look, unphased by her anger. Hadiza looked away.

“If you think I plan on doing anything to him that I’ll regret...you need not worry.” She said in a low voice. Samson rested his hands on the pommel of the saddle, silent. Hadiza sucked her teeth in annoyance. “Who are you to judge, anyway?”

“No judgement here, princess.” Samson said, betraying none of the hurt she’d hurled at him. “But if you dragged my arse all over Thedas to fix what I fucked up only for you to fall to petty vengeance and torture, then you’re a damned hypocrite.”

Hadiza glared at him then, her anger palpable. But, instead of retorting with an inevitable remark, she clamped her teeth around her words.

“Just be ready to move when I say,” she said instead, “and keep your mask on.”

Samson frowned, somewhat disappointed. It wasn’t like her to be so angry, to let it guide her to such reckless decision-making, but he could see there was a lot she wasn’t telling him. He knew there’d be time enough for it later when this was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave one if you with me. ✌


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hadiza gets angry. Extremely NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a little carried away.

When dawn broke over the Piedmont chateau, it felt like any other dawn. But as Etienne opened his eyes, he felt sluggish and feverish, like after one had been drinking in the piss-poor taverns down in the slums. He struggled to lift his head, wondering why sleep clung so desperately to him, trying to sift through the foggy forest of his memories. He swore he could hear singing, a melody that was at once familiar and foreign. The melody swam in his blood like whiskey, warming him, making him long for sleep.

The bite of ice woke him.

He lifted his head, struggling through fatigue...and found himself staring into the golden beveled eye of the Inquisition, the armor was gleaming, his reflection stretched and distorted on its surface. When he looked further up he saw the Inquisitor’s dark face, an effigy of calm. Her eyes glittered like the facets of some unnamed gem, sharper and harder than a diamond, but molten, like smelted silverite.

“Inquisitor…” Etienne managed, his tongue thick in his dry mouth, his lips feeling heavy. Even talking was too much. He heard the distant echo of that haunting melody again, like a dream he could not quite wake from.

The Inquisitor did not acknowledge him, but instead tilted her head ever so slightly.

The ice at Etienne’s feet crept up his legs and he sneezed as his teeth began to chatter.

“It would behoove you, my lord Comte,” the voice was that of the First Enchanter, “to answer every question asked with all the unflinching honesty they teach you in the chevalier doctrine. I am sure you can manage that much since your lies have, unfortunately, failed to hold up.”

Etienne bathed Vivienne in a baleful stare, and she merely shifted her grip on her staff, lacquered nails gleaming like claws in the morning light. In the harshness of the day, his schemes seemed impossible, and now he realized he was bound with rope--well knotted rope.

“So,” Etienne said, testing the strength of his bonds and finding them formidable, “torture is not beneath you, is it?”

The Inquisitor never faltered.

“If you perceive this as torture, my lord,” she said, her voice sonorous, “then you are weaker than I gave you credit for and are thus unworthy of a death at my hands.”

Etienne’s eyes simmered in his affronted fury, but he said nothing, only because something was terribly different. He gazed at Hadiza, breathing deep. Something was coiling and lashing around her, and her shadow looked bigger, and for a moment he swore he saw horns spiraling from its head and several eyes, but when he blinked it was gone.

Hadiza shifted, reaching forward. She placed her right index finger directly on his chest. Etienne felt, for a brief moment, his heart grow slightly colder, and he gasped.

“Inquisitor.” Vivienne warned, her voice breathless with rare emotion and surprise. Hadiza hesitated, then took her hand away. Etienne gasped with relief.

“As I said,” Hadiza continued, “you are not worth the effort it would take for me to kill you. In any case, you are worth more to me alive. I need the names of your conspirators. Your benefactor, the Duke of Lydes, should be in custody before the sun has fully shifted to its zenith. Nasir already bears the mark of my wrath on his face.”

Hadiza reached forward again, staying Vivienne’s hand, and cupped Etienne’s cheek.

“Your plot unravels, and I need only your confession and then I shall set all of the threads ablaze. Why do you want me dead?”

Etienne could answer that much.

“I never wanted you dead, Your Worship.” He said, and Hadiza’s fingertips withdrew. For a moment, he felt remorse for having treated her so poorly. She had the makings of a phenomenal lover, but Maker she was gentle. Orlais would eat her soft heart and leave her for the crows. Part of him regretted having lured her here, but the larger part--the restored luster of his name, the power her title would bring him, even the glory her death would leave him with--called to him louder than his sympathy.

“It was the Duke who said it would be best if you were dead, removing our main opposition.” Etienne continued as Hadiza watched him, weighing and measuring him for a final reckoning as he spun the truth from the frayed and torn threads of his failed lies.

“I proposed the courtship to you to spare your life--” Etienne said, and Vivienne interjected with a scathing and derisive scoff. Etienne shot her a glare but did not stop his confession. “I knew, if you were under control of the Seer’s Star and my wife, you would remain alive and useful. It would also lend my claim to control of the Inquisition more legitimacy. I convinced His Grace that it was the course of action most likely to succeed.”

“I have never been more thankful for your taste in lovers, my dear.” Vivienne said, her voice amused. Hadiza afforded her a brief glowering look. Vivienne frowned. “Though, I wonder, what did the newly-titled Duke of Lydes hope to accomplish by betraying the woman who gave him the title to start with?”

Hadiza pinned Etienne with her gaze, and he met her in defiance. He was already confessing the truth--his honor demanded that much--he would not give her the satisfaction of a broken man. Not like the templar that warmed her bed.

“Chevaliers are trained to withstand even the most brutal of trials by fire, Inquisitor.” He said to her. “You’ll milk no answers from my tongue on that front. If you wish to know his motivations, you need only ask him when your jackbooted thugs haul him in.”

Hadiza looked momentarily sympathetic, but her anger won out, making her face impassive and cold.

“It is not my intention to get answers from you through torture.” She said. “It is my associate from Tevinter who will be doing that.”

Hadiza would tell no one, for as long as she lived, the satisfaction and  _ glee  _ she felt as she watched the blood drain from Etienne’s face as he realized what it meant to be put to questioning by the necromancer, for that is what he was, Dorian Pavus. When he entered the room, Hadiza had to keep from laughing. Often it was she who was called dramatic, but Dorian and Vivienne were two of the few people who understood the impact of an entrance.

“Finally!” Dorian said. “A bit of retribution for that terrible excuse of a party, and perhaps some recompense for this glorious waste of time?”

Hadiza smiled. “Leave enough his wits about him to at least know what’s going on, will you?”

Dorian wiggled his fingers, and between them wove smoke, deep purple and sinister. Etienne struggled against his binds.

“Filthy mages!” He hissed. “Should have had you all put the sword for your treachery.”

Dorian spared Etienne a half-interested glance. Then, without preamble, and a sharp flick of his wrist, Etienne gasped as something hit him in the chest. Almost immediately the spell took hold. The room warped in his vision, distorting into colorless and colored, like a painting left in the rain. He heard his own voice, but it sounded foreign and harsh, warped along with his environment. Everything seemed slower, and the light of the room fled as the shadows reached for it like innumerable hands, drowning it, plunging him into a soft, glowing darkness.

And then he saw the Inquisitor, or what used to be her.

She stood-- _ it  _ stood--taller than a man, vast--so vast!--with a barreled chest and thick legs. Etienne had very little knowledge of the creatures of the Fade, but he knew a pride demon when he saw one. It stared at him with seven wicked eyes. Stared, and laughed, its voice deep as if from the bottom of a well, or a hole deep in the world. It chilled his blood the same way the strange woman’s voice had the previous night.

_ “ _ **_Answer_ ** _.”  _ It commanded in its laughter.  _ “Or did your chevalier training not prepare you for this, I wonder?” _

Etienne tried to scrambled backward, but only succeeded in knocking his chair over. He lay on his side, and began to recite the Chant, snatching at lines like a drowning sailor clutching at driftwood. Etienne stared up at the pride demon, which looked down at him, eyes cold and curious.

And as it reached for him with its massive, clawed hand, Etienne heard himself begging, babbling,  _ confessing _ . Anything was better than this. Had the mages dragged him into the Fade? Was the Inquisitor possessed? It mattered not, because he wanted the nightmare to end.

_ “That’s enough.”  _ The demon said, its voice rumbling inside of Etienne’s chest like an ancient cadence, making his blood feel like acid in his veins. It made him grind his teeth, and he shut his eyes against the sight of the demon as if that would help.

“...eyes.” He heard a voice saying what felt like hours later. “My lord Comte! Can you hear me? Ah, he’s breathing! I think he’s coming to!”

He opened his eyes, expected to see silver starfire, but saw only the wide, worried eyes of one of the servants. When his vision blurred and shook into weary focus, he saw that the Inquisitor and her compatriots were gone. He was also quite unbound, lying on the floor of his bedroom next to the overturned chair he’d been bound to. Had they gotten it out of him? Everything was blurred, almost like a fever dream after licking a blood lotus. He had overplayed his hand, and he knew it. He should have waited as instructed, but the taste of impending victory had made him eager.

And the Inquisitor now held his fate in her hands, and he knew, as he shoved his servants off of him to climb unsteadily to his feet, that he had said and done too much for her not to make a fist.

There was nothing left for it but to await the end of the game.

* * *

“What do you mean  _ fled _ ?” Hadiza demanded as she and her inner circle gathered in one of Vivienne’s salons in her townhouse. Vivienne had dismissed the servants for the day, and tolerated Thom’s ribbing about having her prepare her own tea. She dressed him down, of course, but there were far more important matters at stake than dealing with one of Hadiza’s unfortunate charity cases.

The Inquisition agent, one of Ariadne’s, was unflinching.

“Someone must have warned him that you knew, Your Worship.” She said. “We had the entire estate surrounded, and were closing in to make an official arrest. But he’d fled in a hurry. Rooms were overturned, and the servants slain. There’s no one left alive to bear witness.”

“The murders speak for themselves,” Vivienne said imperiously, “and shout his guilt to heaven nonetheless.” She turned to look at Hadiza, who was tight-lipped with a quiet anger that was rarely seen in her. “My dear now would be best to bring Nasir to justice before he too decides to flee.”

“No.” Hadiza said in a low voice. “We take them all.” She got up, pacing in restive silence. “Put every outpost we have on high alert. Bring Jean-Gaspard back to Val Royeaux  _ alive _ , or however you find him. He can’t have gotten far.”

She paused. “Bring Etienne in as well. We will hold them in custody, and then we go after Visage du Soleil.”

“To apprehend Nasir, I presume.” Dorian said.

Hadiza laughed. “No. I intend to raze it all to ash if need be. But yes, Nasir. I want them all, alive or however you find them. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Worship!” The agent said with alacrity, bowing with a fist over her heart. Hadiza gave a firm nod of dismissal, and the agent left, as quiet as a ghost. Samson watched, as he always did, from the peripheries of the inner circle, leaning against one of the tables bearing a vase of lilies. He was unmasked for now, in the presence of those who knew him for who and what he was.

“Shall we trust your agents to keep Nasir within the city walls?” Cullen asked.

Hadiza sighed. “We’re tired and we’ve no choice as of now. But he wields a dangerous artifact, and I’d sooner storm his little artistic stronghold and confiscate it from him. There are no mages in the Inquisition powerful enough to counter it.”

Cullen pursed his lips.

“What of Ser Barris and the remaining templars?” He suggested. Hadiza looked saddened momentarily, running her fingers through her hair.

“No.” She said softly. “No, I have asked enough of the templars and mages alike. The entire world has and paid for it dearly. No, this is a fight I must face myself. Nasir will try to leave the city if he learns his conspirators are in my custody.”

“So lie to him.” Dorian suggested laconically. “Have a letter drafted to lure Nasir into a place where his weapon is useless. When your enemy has enough to eat, you must starve him...or some nonsense.”

Hadiza drummed her fingers on the lacquered wood of an end table as she sat back down.

“No. We must meet him on his turf, unfortunately. It’s very possible there is someone in there waiting to carry out a contingency plan in his stead should he fail. So we shall go to the source.”

“And what?” Thom demanded. “Apprehend them all? For Andraste’s sake they’re just a bunch of dancers and actors playing at Court intrigue.”

“Pretenders?” Vivienne drawled. “I assure you that in the Game, Visage du Soleil pretends  _ nothing _ . But I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Thom’s gaze sharpened momentarily, but he said nothing. Vivienne sipped her cordial, her expression seemingly neutral but the shadow of a smirk played at her lips as she lifted her glass in a mock toast.

“Enough.” Hadiza said sharply. “It matters not. We bring all of them in, we question them.”

“It will avail us nothing, Inquisitor.” Vivienne said. “They were all trained to lie, and they will do so to protect themselves and one another if it suits them. Even a cantrip horror spell will not move their tongues.”

“But the Seer’s Star can and will.” Hadiza said. Samson stirred.

“No.” He said firmly, coming toward them. Hadiza glanced up at him.

“No.” He repeated. “Don’t you dare fucking use that thing. You don’t know what it’s capable of. None of us do. And you’ve suffered under its power, Inquisitor. Would you subject others to the same for the sake of the truth?”

Hadiza hesitated, feeling the strong bite of shame in her gut. She looked away. Even Vivienne looked troubled. The Seer’s Star needed to be destroyed, but to even consider using it to get answers--even from their enemies--that was too far.

No small part of the collective shame came from having an actual war criminal tell them so.

“You’re right.” Hadiza said softly. “It is barbaric to consider. We will have to go off the proof we already have, then.”

“No offense, Inquisitor,” Varric said, “but I think Jean-Gaspard murdering his entire household to make a clean getaway is proof enough of a conspiracy. Not to mention the correspondence...and Dorian’s research. And you’ve got the Empress’ ear since you know, that whole preventing her assassination thing.” Varric winked, then added, “And Nasir isn’t going anywhere. No way he’d let such a large and extravagant production tank because his other plans failed. He’s too much of a self-absorbed artist for that.”

Hadiza smiled. “You are right, Varric, thank you. Alright. We’ll get no more done today. Let’s...get some rest, then. Maker knows we all need it.”

In agreement, they left. Hadiza stayed, Vivienne having insisted she stay in her townhouse, which was cozier than the chateau of horrors, and far, far safer.

“Madame de Fer,” Hadiza whispered, feeling like a nervous child, “might I ask your permission to allow Samson to stay the night?”

Vivienne pursed her lips, shooting a baleful gaze Samson’s way. Unable to hear, Samson looked completely impassive, his lips downturned in that tired frown he always seemed to wear. But then he looked at Hadiza, brows going up in a silent question, his expression softening.

“It is only because I know you’ll just run off to go see him that I allow this. Better you’re both here, where it’s relatively safe and he can remain out of sight, than out in some pisswine inn ruining your hard-won reputation.” Vivienne said shortly. “But mind you, if you two make any...unruly noise, I will put you both out in the stables.”

Hadiza grinned full to split her face.

“Yes ma’am.” She said, grinning harder at Vivienne’s eyeroll and disgruntled scoff. As she left them alone in the room, Hadiza sighed and slumped down on one of the couches, thoroughly exhausted. Samson came to sit next to her.

“I’m sorry.” She mumbled, stretching her legs out in front of her, uncaring that she looked unladylike. She was so tired. Samson nodded.

“I am too.” He said. “You didn’t...you didn’t torture him, did you?”

Hadiza said nothing. “Fear spell. Scared a confession out of him with his own fears. I don’t think he expected that...but there was no point in beating one out of him.” She looked at her hands. “I don’t think I could, anyway.” She shuddered.

“Even after all he’s said and done to you?” Samson asked, his tone rife with curiosity and concern alike. Hadiza crawled back up, trying to sit up straight.

“Yes.” She whispered. “Even then. In the moments when he had me...trapped, I thought of nothing else. I even told him I’d take his head myself. I was so angry, Samson...no one’s ever...treated me like that before.”

Samson wanted to tell her he’d seen worse in Kirkwall, where mages like her would have been ripe for the more monstrous templars like Alrik, but he wisely kept his fool mouth shut. It was jarring enough being reduced to a plaything, even if the man had never...had her.

“I was scared too.” Hadiza admitted. “I thought he was going to kill me after he stripped my magic. I tried to fight him once and he overpowered me so easily. I had forgotten what it felt like to be strong without my magic and it nearly got me killed…”

“Don’t.” Samson said. “It’s not your fault. He took you off guard, and you wandered into a well-laid trap. You’re not at fault for anything he’s done. He is.”

But Maker if he didn’t want vengeance on her behalf.

Hadiza turned to him, her expression caught between uncomprehending hurt, and a warbling anger at her own powerlessness.

“Teach me.” She said firmly. Samson met her gaze in a hushed expectancy. “Teach me to fight without magic. I want to be able to kill an enemy without needing a fireball. I never want to feel like...like  _ that _ again.”

“Hadiza…” He began but Hadiza shook her head.

“No.” She said. “I...I was supposed to be a warrior, Samson. I was going to be a  _ knight _ , and my magic took that from me. I want that back so that this can never happen to me again.”

For a moment, Samson felt a swell of pride. It was unexpected and he felt a lump in his throat. It was not pity or sympathy that moved him, but pure, unalloyed pride in her. His princess, who was more fierce than she gave herself credit for. She’d met him in battle, bringing the wrath of heaven with her. She was storm and sea and sky, she was earth, stone, and the green growing things that covered the bones of the earth. She was blood, sweat, and tears...and she was so very strong, almost too strong for all the weight she bore on her delicate shoulders, but much stronger than she knew.

Would that he had her courage...especially when it mattered most.

“Are you sure?” He asked her. Hadiza never broke his gaze, and there was a fierceness there, the same fire he’d seen when he met her in battle, when she’d stared at him, defiant to the last, even as her own blood poured from the wound in her head, the only true proof he’d drawn out that she was only a mortal woman. Just as she had proven he was only a mortal man.

For all their power, they would always be thus.

“Yes.” She said.

Samson cupped her face in his palm, and his heart ached when she leaned into his touch, shutting her eyes in a private resignation.

“It will be difficult,” he told her, “and demanding. You’re going to train harder than you ever have, but you’ll be stronger and more versatile for it. Princess, I need to know if you understand that you’re submitting yourself to a forge to be hammered and sculpted into more than what you are, now.”

Hadiza opened her eyes.

“I know.” She said. “I would not ask for less.”

Samson didn’t know why that set his blood on fire, but Maker, it did. There was something about her tone, about the way her face seemed shaped by starlight and shadow when she said it, made her immortal to him. He drew her in, kissed her hard, surprising himself and her.

Hadiza answered the call in her blood, and before she could pull him in, he pulled to her, and she went willingly. She had spent so much time in fear and anger and frustration that she had not had time to think about how much she missed this! Samson’s mouth was rough, but she loved the scratch of his stubble, the fullness of his lips as she slid her tongue along the bottom lip suggestively, making him groan.

She pulled away, gasping for breath.

“Come.” She said and before she could get up, she heard Samson laugh.

“No, but maybe later.” He laughed uproariously as she reached to hit him hard with one of the throw pillows. She got to her feet, tugging his arm as he came with her, following her down the hall to her new quarters, which were admittedly smaller than what she’d had at the chateau, but Samson preferred it.

Hadiza hauled him into her bedchamber, and Samson shut the door behind him, stumbling.

“Andraste’s arse!” He laughed as she tugged him by his coat toward her for another kiss. He struggled to keep up, holding her, gathering her dress in his hands as he cupped the soft curves of her rear, squeezing suggestively, making her sigh.

“It’s been...far too long…” Hadiza breathed. “Maker...I just want…mmm... _ yes _ …!”

Samson backed her against the wall, and she sat on the small end table, knocking over the books that had been on it. They tumbled and fluttered their pages like wounded pheasants during a hunt. Hadiza hiked up her skirts, even as Samson unbuckled his breeches, reaching inside to free his aching cock. Hadiza rocked her hips forward and he reached between her spread legs, tracing the lace edge of her smalls, groaning when he found them wet. Without hesitation he pulled them aside, swearing reverently as his fingers brushed against the moist lips of her sex.

But there was no time, and Hadiza was as ever, impatient. She crossed her legs at his back, pulling him close. The end table rocked beneath them as Samson fitted himself to her entrance. Hadiza hissed, the blunt tip of his cock feeling like too much of a tease against the moist heat of her. She urged him inside, and Samson sank with enviable relish until his hips were flush against her thighs.

Hadiza shivered, and as always, thought she would never be filled like this again. She linked her arms around his neck, kissing him gently as he held himself still, shuddering like a fly-stung horse while he reacquainted himself with the molten, wet heat of her.

“I love you.” She whispered and it broke his heart and burned his blood to know that she meant every word of it.

He suddenly did not know if he could say it back. Instead, where his words fell short, he kissed her, again and again. He wanted to say it again, to breathe the words and not feel like a n exposed nerve by an open fire. Hadiza cupped his face in her hands, met his gaze, and smiled. His heart flooded as she stroked his mouth with her thumb.

“I love you too, princess.” He heard himself whisper, leaning into her as their foreheads pressed together. For a moment, they existed outside of time, caught only in this moment, their bodies joined, their hearts beating as one.

Only then did he move, heedless of the rocking of the table she balanced on, listening only to her quiet moans of encouragement. He braced himself on one arm, linking one of her legs over the other, wanting to be closer to her, closer than skin. His lips staked a claim on her throat, chasing the reverberations of her cries as he worked in and then out of her in slow, torturous strokes. Hadiza let out a sound of surrender, a sound that was broken and helpless as her nails scrabbled at his shoulders.

“Samson…!” She whimpered plaintively, and he sped up, rocking her and that table against the wall in a gradually more punishing rhythm. Every frustration, every block, every moment in which they were kept apart by virtue of circumstance, he made up for tenfold. He took her deep, freeing her legs to fold her nearly in half. She released him, bracing herself against the table. Passion was swallowed by the many throated beast of something far more carnal, and Samson took her hard, wanting only to hear her.

Hadiza bit her lip on a whimpering sob of pleasure, thumping her head against the wall as Samson worked at her relentlessly.

But it was too quick, for both of them. Too fucking quick because suddenly she was ascending, tumbling toward the stars, but he anchored her, never letting her spin too far out, even as lights burst across her vision and she dissolved with a spiraling cry as she came.

“Shit!” Samson swore, and in a few hard thrusts, surrendered to her as he always did, trembling from the force of her climax which galvanized his own.

In the muggy aftermath, they waited for the last tremors to subside before they slumped against one another, panting, sweat gleaming on their skin. Hadiza’s dress suddenly felt hot and uncomfortable. She wanted to get out of it, but she turned her head, pressing tender kisses to Samson’s sweat slick temple. They said nothing, for words both needed and unneeded had no place here, in this moment in time, where love and passion abided further downstream from the rapids of their lust.

Samson pressed wet, lazy kisses to Hadiza’s throat, missing her even as she was there in his arms, where, he thought, in his heart--the part of himself he kept secret even from her--she belonged.

It seemed like hours before they finally disengaged and made their way to bed. Hadiza stripped out of her dress and her underclothes and shoes, leaving the velvet and silk in an expensive pile. Samson almost begged her to leave on the silk stockings, the ones that drove him wild with the little bows on the backs of her thighs, but having her in bed naked was just as rewarding. The bed was awfully cold, though.

“Was she really a siren?” Hadiza asked softly, her voice still soft and gentle with sated pleasure. Samson laced their fingers, staring past the glow of the fire in the fireplace, recalling his time aboard  _ The Deliverance _ .

“Yes.” He said. “You felt her voice same as I did. She’s the nicer one of her sisters, believe me.”

“I can’t believe she fed that man to them. That’s so...gruesome.” Hadiza murmured, her eyes heavy-lidded. Samson could not argue that. He’d witnessed the feeding frenzy as the sirens tore apart the remains of the one who’d bound them to those accursed and treacherous rocks. Balor had been unrepentant in what he’d done, and Samson could find no pity for the man. He’d reaped his own fate from the rotted seeds of blood magic and consorting with demons. He’d yet to see a mage deal with such things and come out sane or with their soul intact.

“I wish she’d stayed.” Hadiza said. “I could use someone like her.”

“That’s precisely why she didn’t, princess.” Samson told her. “Odette spent her entire life on land being used, and had her power stolen for it...only for it to be twisted and used too. You’re a good one, Hadiza, but even you use people for your own ends, or the Inquisition.”

Hadiza frowned.

“I suppose you’re right.” She said, slightly affronted. “But the Seer’s Star threatens us all. I don’t see why she wouldn’t want to help retrieve it.”

Samson made a noise of agreement. He did not know Odette’s mind, but he had a feeling they hadn’t seen the last of her or the crew of  _ The Deliverance _ .

“She chose the name for herself.” Hadiza said. “At least, that’s what the old tales said of the siren who fell in love and gave up her tail for a mortal. I like that. Her entire identity is her own.”

Samson smiled. “It’s a bit inspiring, huh? Neither one of us got to choose our names, or even what we got to be.”

Hadiza turned in his embrace to rest her chin on his chest.

“Did your parents choose your name, or the Chantry?” She asked. Samson blinked.

“Parents.” He said gruffly, looking away from her to gaze at the fire. “Samson is just a surname, by the way. My...my parents named me something else.”

Hadiza gazed at him, expectant. Samson did not think he could ever speak his name again. It did not feel like who he was, and yet, what else was there to reclaim but that?

“Raleigh.” He said. “My parents named me Raleigh. Once I was a recruit, though, no one ever called me that, and my instructor always said it didn’t carry the weight of the templars too well...so he just started calling me Samson and it stuck.”

Hadiza sat up.

“Ra...leigh.” She said slowly, and Samson’s brow knit. It was as if she were tasting his name, but her accent made it sound like  _ ah-rah-lee _ . He liked it a great deal more, for some reason. It was as if his name belonged to her, on her tongue and nowhere else. It made him feel as if there was something new growing within him. Samson was tainted, he knew that much, but  _ Raleigh _ could be birthed from the scarred and hideous ashes of what was left of the broken knight.

“Raleigh.” She said again. “Raleigh Samson.” She smiled at him.

Samson felt heat flush through the back of his neck, to his ears and face, and he swallowed hard.

“My mother named me Hadiza,” she explained, “but the name the Chantry gave me was Evelyn. But no one ever called me that but my mean old grandmother. Even my father called me Diza. I guess it’s partly why I’ve never been the ‘Good Trevelyan’ daughter and married myself to the faith.”

Samson laughed. “Evelyn, huh? You don’t look like an Evelyn to me. Why was your grandmother mean?”

Hadiza scoffed. “She hated that we didn’t look like the ideal Trevelyan women: dusky-skinned and with longer hair.”

Samson eyed the profusion of coarse curls on Hadiza’s head. They fell to her waist, gleaming in the light. He couldn’t find a flaw on her that didn’t add piecemeal to the overall beauty of her. The scars, the faded spots of skin, the silvery threads of stretch marks on her hips and the curves of her rear--there was nothing he wouldn’t cherish on her. Her name suited her; he simply could not balance ‘Evelyn’ on the tongue.

“We were just too dark, wild, and Rivaini-looking for grandmother’s taste,” Hadiza said bitterly. “And aside, she knew I hated the name, so she made it a point to address me only as that.”

Samson snorted. “A petty type, eh? I suppose you must have gotten by well enough seeing as how you’re here, now, still getting the world to call you the name you want...and a few you don’t want, besides.”

Hadiza waved her hand. “It’s why I never answered her. Aja never answered to her name either. It drove grandmere up a wall.” She drew herself up, placing her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. Then, in a mocking, shrill voice, said: “‘Evelyn! Evelyn stop running down those halls!’”

Hadiza laughed at the memory. “She’d be so furious when I pretended not to hear. I used to practice my sneaking skills by trying to get past her room without having to hear her scream that stupid name.”

Samson laughed. He tried to imagine Hadiza as a child, small and dark and bright-eyed, sneaking past an open bedroom door, clinging to the shadows, the moonlight caught in her shining hair. It was difficult to imagine, but endearing.

“I prefer ‘princess’, myself.” He admitted, caressing her shoulder tenderly. “Suits your disposition.”

Hadiza laughed. “I suppose it’s just as well that the ladies of Ostian nobility wear crowns of a sort to denote our station. An antiquated practice, but I do love them.”

Samson gazed up at her, her disheveled hair framing her face, her smile soft and genuine, her eyes guileless. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, or would ever see. Whether it was because she’d snatched his heart from his chest or because she truly was a striking woman, he could not say. He drew her to him even as she came down, and they kissed, tender and slow.

“I’ve missed you.” Hadiza whispered. “I won’t ever leave you behind again. And you’ve my permission to shake some sense into me if I’ve a mind to do so.”

Samson smiled, shutting his eyes.

“And I won’t let you if you think to, princess.” He whispered back, kissing her again. “Not when I’ve become so damned sweet on you.”

Hadiza laughed, crawling on top of him.

“Oh?” She murmured against his mouth, her hair spilling over one shoulder as they continued to kiss. Hadiza reached behind her, fingers stroking his cock suggestively, until it hardened and thickened in her hand, hot and engorged. She stroked the length of her slit with the blunt head until she was slick, until she could coat him with it. Samson kissed her, lifting his lips at the same time and he groaned as he slid into her with ease.

“ _ Oh _ .” He answered, his rumbling laughter weaving with her breathless joy.

The made love slowly, sweetly, savoring every moment, lacing their fingers and lips, even as they surged as one; shore, sea, and sky. Hadiza spread her legs a little wider, and Samson reached to cup her rear, spreading her for his pleasure. Idly, countering the gentle rhythm of their rocking hips, he circled the puckered bud of her other entrance with his middle finger, relishing in her shiver of delight.

They continued, slow, building and blending their heat, stoking the flame with patience and the deep, unending well of their mutual desire.

“Tell me,” Samson whispered, both from heartbreak and desire alike, “tell me…”

He did not need to specify. Hadiza whispered it into his open mouth, poured the benediction of love into him like panacea. Samson continued to thrust into her, drinking down her moans with heavy, saturated kisses.

“Samson…” She whispered, her voice raw and desperate. “Samson, I’m so close…”

Yes. Samson picked up his pace a little more and she buried her face in his neck, letting him thrust upward, while his finger continued that torturous stroke of her puckered opening. Hadiza wanted him inside of her and to never leave, wanted him in both entrances, wanted to feel the weight of his cock on her tongue, to hear him lose himself to her just as she did to him.

All of this, she told him, whispering the filthy obscenities to him, feeling his demeanor change as she gave voice to he desires, he rolled them over, tangling the sheets, pulling out of her. Hadiza reached blindly for the bedside table, knocking over a small bottle. It was corked but Samson caught it. Starlight oil.

He laughed.

“Mm.” He said, uncorking the bottle as he withdrew his cock from her. Hadiza kept her legs spread. “Are you sure?” He asked. “It’s been a while.”

Hadiza licked her lips in a way that made him want to thrust back into her.

“Yes.” She told him. “Please…”

Samson poured the oil into his hands, let it drip onto his cock, over her sex. He slicked his cock with it until it was slippery and gleaming, then reached down to stroke that puckered entrance with his oil-slick fingers. Hadiza whimpered, reaching down to slide her fingers over her sex. Samson watched, utterly mesmerized. She rarely pleasured herself, preferring instead that he worship at the altar with his lips and tongue. But this? Ah, this was a rare treat.

He slid one finger into her tight little opening, relishing the slick slide. He eased in slowly, watching her face, noting how her hands trembled and hesitated in her own pleasuring as her focus narrowed down to the single intrusion below. He withdrew a little, added more oil, continued to stroke little by little.

Hadiza felt full, but it was a sensation without compare. Her eyelids fluttered, and she heard her vast intake of breath. He was preparing her, stretching her open, and she wondered if it felt like this with only his fingers, then how would she fare with his cock?

She was eager to find out, and a bit apprehensive.

He added another finger, and this time she couldn’t restrain herself. She let out a long, helpless groan, reached over her head to find something to hold onto.

“Easy, princess.” Samson murmured. “I’ve got you.” He kept stroking. Hadiza felt her legs shake. It was so much. Too much. The sensation was overwhelming. Pleasure? Pain? It rode the same thin line to her in that moment, smearing her sentient thought and focus as she gripped something--the headboard?--tightly.

He added a third finger, slow, agonizingly slow.

Hadiza’s cry came out a breathless sound, high in pitch, and her back arched, inadvertently forcing him deep. Samson was quick enough to ease back as she yelped.

“Are you sure you want this, princess?” He asked her, and she whimpered when he withdrew his fingers. “Because I could bury my face in your cunt all night instead.”

Hadiza thought she was losing her mind. Why couldn’t there be two of him? She wanted both, and felt guilty for being so unabashedly greedy.

As if sensing her thoughts, Samson grinned, looking sinister in the firelight.

“Don’t think you’re quite ready for  _ that _ , princess. Although your cunt’s insatiable enough…”

As if to emphasize his point, he leaned down, met her cunt in an opened mouth kiss, drawing a deep moan from her as he sucked her clit into his mouth. Hadiza made her decision, reckless and hungry.

“Yes. That.” She said and Samson looked up at her, his mouth hovering a breath from her swollen cunt, licking his lips as if she were an unfinished meal. He smirked again and she swallowed. Then, he lowered his head.

Hadiza hoped she still had the energy to storm an entire stronghold tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things got a little steamy there. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> Leave one if you with me. ✌


End file.
